


Run Away With Me To Hell

by casstayinmyass



Category: Let Me Make You a Martyr (2016), Marilyn Manson (Band), Sons of Anarchy
Genre: Actress Reader, Airports, Alcohol, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bathroom Sex, Blow Jobs, Cock Slut, Cock Tease, Comments Make Me Really Happy Guys, Concerts, Cuckolding, Cunnilingus, Daddy Kink, Domestic Fluff, Drinking, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Ghost Hunters, Groupie Reader, Halloween parties, Hand Jobs, Hotel Sex, Non-Famous Reader, Oral Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Phone Sex, Pillow Talk, Reader Insert, Recreational Drug Use, Rough Sex, Semi-Public Sex, Smut, Spanking, Teasing, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-01-02 16:37:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 72,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21164765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casstayinmyass/pseuds/casstayinmyass
Summary: All my Manson writing, in one neat fic! Each chapter is a new fic, posted on my tumblr. I write for all his eras and characters.





	1. Handshakes and Autographs

**Author's Note:**

> Some of these have been posted individually on here, but this is an easier masterlist sort of for all my manson works. 
> 
> All originally posted on my tumblr, headoverhiddles!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marilyn takes a liking to you during a meet and greet on the Twins of Evil tour. Poor Rob has to perform Helter Skelter on his own, since his tour partner is otherwise indisposed backstage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Era: Heaven Upside Down.

VIP concerts tickets are expensive, but worth it. When you had bought them, it had been a dream of yours that had turned into a goal: having a little fun with Marilyn.

You’d been to his shows before, but never met him. It’s on your bucket list to get backstage at one of his concerts, since you’ve always found him attractive. You fix your tiny tank top, and adjust your hair. It’s almost your turn to see him. When it is, you saunter forward.

“Oh. Okay,” Marilyn murmurs, pleasantly surprised by you. His deep voice sends shivers through you, downward between your legs. He gives a noise of appreciation as you approach. “Hello.”

“Can I sit on your lap?” you ask, as innocently as you can. Marilyn smirks, and you can already see all the dirty things working through his mind.

“Baby, you can sit on anything of mine you like,” he mumbles, and grins, flashing that silver grill. You giggle, making yourself comfortable on top of him. For the picture, he puts his arms around your neck from behind and rests his head on your shoulder.

“I’ve got something in mind,” you whisper in his ear. He looks at you curiously as you give him a poster to sign.

“What’s your name?”

“(y/n).”

“(y/n), that’s a very beautiful name. You got anywhere to be tonight, (y/n)? Anyone with you?” He scribbles something on the poster.

“Free as a bird,” you murmur, eyes flickering down to his lips, “And all by myself.” You make a show of biting your lip. 

“Come up to the stage at halftime, like, when I’m done my set. Before Zombie goes on, come backstage. We can get to know each other better before, y'know… the real shit later.”

“Any magic words to get past security?” you whisper.

“Oh, yeah. Just say ‘John 5 licked my asshole, for real’. John hasn’t had to use the password yet, so don’t tell him.” You grin, and get up.

“See you later.”

“Alligator,” he whispers.

“What?”

“No, ’s nothing, see you later, baby.”

You glance down at the poster that he signed, reading his message.

_“I can’t wait to get my sperm all over you, (y/n). xx MM.”_

Well. That’s one you won’t be able to hang up at work.

—

As Angel With The Scabbed Wings starts, you can barely contain your excitement. No matter how many shows you see of his, his entrances are always breathtaking. 

About four songs in, you’re just a little bit buzzed on Palm Bay. He looks sexy as hell up there in his black vest and tight pants, as he introduces Kill4Me. 

“I just got one question for you,” he says to the crowd, as they cheer back, “Would you kill for me?” Deafening cheers ring out, and Marilyn grins down at you, winking. “Yeah, I know _you _would.” You blow him a little kiss. 

The rest of his show is amazing as always. When he heads backstage though, you hang around in the pit, and catch the first bit of Rob’s set. You came to see both of them, and you had a good vantage point that you didn’t want to give up. 

When you eventually do decide that it’s time to meet Marilyn backstage, you slip through the crowd during Pussy Liquor and the guards let you through when you give them the, uh… interesting password. 

You navigate through some hallways backstage, wearing a smiley face sticker the guard had been instructed to stick on your arm. By the time Rob is onto Dragula, you find Marilyn wiping himself with a towel then tossing it at his keyboard player. You smirk, leaning against the wall. 

“Oh, it’s _you,_” Marilyn sees you, “(y/n), right? I thought you’d abandoned me. Just spent the last 20 minutes crying over you, I’m so embarrassed…” He’s a little more drunk then he was earlier, but he wears it well.

“I wanted to see Rob too,” you raise an eyebrow playfully, “Believe it or not, you’re not the only one I came for.”

“Ouch,” he puts a hand over his heart.

“But don’t worry. I spent your whole show wet, thinking of doing this.” You walk forward, pressing your lips to his, and his hands fumble up, cupping your cheeks and kissing back. You’re sure you’ve got stage glitter, blue and magenta makeup, sweat and hair gel all over you now, but fuck it. Marilyn’s lips are perfect for kissing. Pliant, soft, but urgent enough to make you wanna fuck.

“Suck my dick?” he mumbles.

“Yes, sir,” you tease, and drop to your knees. You take him out of his pants to find him half hard, likely from either the physical exertion of performing or the fact that whenever he would look at you in the mosh pit while he was singing he would inconspicuously rub himself a little onstage.

“Mmm,” you moan as you close your mouth around his cock. He groans, watching you down on the ground. 

“I apologize in advance, I’m sweaty and that probably tastes really bad…” 

You shake your head, popping off. “You’ve got nothing on my ex.” Marilyn cracks that grin again, head hitting the back wall. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry for you.” He sucks a sharp breath of air in. “Oooh… yeah, take it all, baby, that’s right.” 

As you’re both just starting to get into it, a sarcastic voice interrupts you.

“Really Manson? You couldn’t have finished in time for our duet?!”

You hadn’t even realized Rob had finished his set. You turn as much as you can, giving Rob a little wave. He waves back with a sardonic smile.

“Quality blow jobs take time to execute, Zombie,” Marilyn grins, watching you work on him, “And god’s honest truth, I have no control over what’s happening here. I’m just goin’ with it.” He bites his bottom lip, exposing his grill again and muttering a_ 'yeah, yeah’ _under his breath. Rob makes a disgusted face as he watches Manson’s obscene hip thrusts. 

“You just had to fuck things up here, right?”

“If by ‘things’ you mean her, that’s very offensive nomenclature, this is a beautiful… human woman… who is very talented at oral sex–” Manson groans, fingers twisting in your hair as you prove that statement. 

“Aaand, you couldn’t have brought her back to your hotel room like a respectable rock star, I guess." 

"Nah, my dick was too hard,” Manson replies, “Besides, what about me is fuckin respectable?” You let out a moan, and the singer’s thighs quiver under your touch. Marilyn gets a Dad Look from Rob. “–You’ll be happy to know Zombie, that we’ll continue it at the hotel. After I… o-oh…” His body shudders, and you bob faster, hollowing your cheeks and swallowing around the head. He shudders again, making a garbled noise, and lets out a long groan as you feel him cum in your mouth.

Rob just rolls his eyes, dragging his own towel across his face, and walks away. Marilyn’s fingers lace through your hair, and he pumps himself in and out of your mouth a few times before taking his dick out.

“You’re a revelation,” he groans, “Like the fuckin’ bible. But sexier.” You smirk, wiping your bottom lip.

“That’s just the opening act.” You saunter past him to grab some of the cake they have backstage, and Marilyn groans, watching your ass and wishing the after party would start already. 


	2. The Band-Aid Effect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a blow out fight, you and Marilyn have to survive a flight together. Maybe he’ll have time in the airport to get back on your good side… maybe not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Era: Mechanical Animals

“You know, you are a piece of work.”

“All I said was, you look like Dora got a facial from Grape Ape, with that lipstick choice. Could’ve been a compliment. Wasn’t, but I mean, it could’ve been. And the eyeliner? Sweetheart.”

You two walk briskly down to gate B90 for your flight back to LA from Prague.

“You’re such an asshole.”

He takes your arm, moving his hand down to grip your wrist tightly as you both continue toward your airport gate.

“What?” you mutter, “Don’t want me to cause a scene in front of the cameras?”

“I just wanted to hold your hand,” Marilyn’s drawl comes out from those pink painted lips. He lets go. “Make a scene. I don’t care.”

“Fuck, you’re so apathetic.”

“Oh. Yeah, thanks. I’m apathetic. Like I don’t get that enough.”

“Don’t make this about your career. This is about us.”

“Who bought you a fucking puppy for your birthday?!”

“It’s not about the dog, it’s about… co-existing in a healthy relationship, jesus!”

He spends a long time looking at you, as the two of you sit down at the first class gate. You’re both silent for a good three minutes. He patters his nails along his knee. You cross your arms and look out the window, trying to let the sound of all the planes taking off calm you down. 

His voice jolts you out of your peaceful trance. “You know what I think?”

“Oh, please tell me,” you nod. 

“I think what you need is a good fuck.”

“Wow.” You shouldn’t even be surprised he would say that at this point.

“I do, you look like you could use a quickie. Quick fingering, you know, in and out.”

“Sex isn’t always the answer, Brian,” you growl.

“No, but it’s… a band-aid,” he tries not to smirk.

“I’m not fucking you after you were a complete asshole to me this morning!”

“I’m sorry if I came off as insensitive.”

“I spent a long time doing that makeup!”

“I mean, I would fuck you even if you had the other stuff on.”

“Enough with the fucking!”

He cocks his head. “Really? Cause… your pussy might say something different. Maybe you should ask it.”

“Maybe you should ask your dick why it’s always hard!” You snap.

“That’s easy, the answer is right in front of me.” He glances down at your cleavage. “Need I remind you of my allergy?”

“What?!”

“I’m allergic to breasts. I break out in erections.”

You start to smirk, but wipe it off your face. “You… are so…”

He puts his hand on your knee, and starts to rub higher.

“Baby girl, I want you.”

“Literally fuck off right now.”

“Okay. Alright,” he nods. “You don’t want it? Fine. I’m not gonna force you.”

You watch him out of the corner of your eye, watch him purse his lips, and pick up a fashion magazine from the pile provided by the lounge.

“You know…” you sigh, “I’m just pissed, okay?”

“Which is the perfect reason to fuck.”

“Oh my–”

“I want you to beat my ass, bite me all over and tell me I’ve been a bad little boy. Punish me for it.”

“Like I can do that here.”

“You know, it was proven in the 17th century that… like, women were less hysteric when they orgasmed, cause their like, uterus was floating around or something.”

You glare at him in disgust. “That’s fucking offensive!”

“Yeah well… have you met me?” he laughs helplessly.

“Get your fucking fingers… out of there, we’re in an airport!”

“There’s an airport bathroom right there.”

“We can’t just walk in together.”

“Yes we can, I look like a woman.”

He stands up, but you tug him back down.

“Jerk it yourself.”

He puts his hands over his chest, pretending to be shocked. Don’t look at him. Don’t look at him– fuck. He’s biting his glittery lips, and you can already see the outline of his sizeable bulge.

“Babygirl. My dick is dying to get inside you,” he whispers, “It’s throbbing so bad, I think that… pissed off looking airline attendant lady is gonna hear it, I think she’s gonna think it’s a bomb.”

You can’t help it. You burst into a flurry of giggles, covering your mouth. Marilyn giggles with you, until he sits back down and rubs your back.

“I’m sorry, okay?”

“Mhm.”

“…We can always wait til we’re on the plane. I’ve always wanted to join the mile high club.”

Without another word, you get up, grabbing his hand and leading him to the women’s washroom. You get a few stares, but Marilyn keeps his head down so his long red hair tumbles over his face, and you generally go unnoticed until you get into a stall.

“Make it fast,” you moan.

He purses his lips. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll make it fast and hard.”

He turns you around, pressing your front up against the wall of the stall. You hear him unbuckling his belt, and he holds you by the back of the neck, rolling his hips a couple of times against your ass.

“Mmm, get it in me,” you groan, and he smirks.

“Not so mad now, are we?”

You growl. “I’m this close to opening this goddamn door and showing the world your dick.”

“That’s not fair, it’s not fully hard yet, it’s not as big as it would b–”

You shut him up with a kiss, then he turns you around again, moving your hair aside to attach his lips to your neck. You moan, pushing back against him, and he parts your legs, positioning himself and–

“Ohh,” he murmurs in your hair, “So wet.”

“I had a… nice dream… last night. That’s why…” you gasp out between his deep, rough thrusts.

“Mhmm. Sure.” He sinks his teeth ever so slightly into your shoulder, and you have to force yourself to make any noise at all. You’re so used to fucking in his house, where you can scream, bang around, shout whatever the fuck you want to with nobody around but Marilyn’s cats (and the new dog) to hear.

“Bet you wanna scream my name, huh?” he whispers.

“M-mm-mm…. fuck… you…”

“You are fucking me,” he grins, and gives a particularly hard thrust, chuckling deeply as he watches you fall apart. “And enjoying it too.”

“God, I’m so… mad at you…” you manage out. “Think you can try actually making me cum?” It’s a completely low blow, since he always does, but it has the desired effect.

He slams his hips in hard, and you gasp, starting to slam your hips back just as hard.

“You wanna fuckin’ cum?” he growls in your ear, “I’ll make you fuckin cum, little girl.”

You two rock together like that, Marilyn holding one hand to your back to keep you pressed against the wall and the other hand squeezing your breasts.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he whispers, “How close are you? I’m about to make wet in you.”

“Mfff… don’t call it… that…”

“How c-close?”

“I’m almost there, ah,” you gasp, reaching back, and he tugs your hair back, sucking a hickey right into your neck. He gives your ass a couple of spanks, not caring at this point who hears since they have probably heard the creaking of the stall by now. He squeezes your ass as he pumps in and out fast, chasing his and your orgasms.

“You like that? You like that?” He keeps fucking you hard. “How’s that for an apology, huh?”

“Unghh,” is all you can mutter, and you start to feel your toes curl and point as your climax approaches.

“Mar… Mar, oh god…”

“Fucking cum,” he growls in your ear, “Cum for me, now.” You bite your hand, holding the moan in as you cum hard on his cock. He keeps thrusting in, but strategically, rocking gently and rubbing your clit until he’s sure your orgasm has waned. Then he fucks in hard again, giving three thrusts before he bites your shoulder again, stifling his own moan of your name. He slumps, and you both stand there for a second, catching your breath.

When Marilyn pulls out, you feel his cum dripping down your thigh. You smirk to yourself, pulling your panties up.

“Do you love me again now?” he whispers, tilting your chin up to meet his eyes.

“Probably,” you sigh, and he peeks over the stall door. Nobody, thankfully. The two of you quickly exit the stall, and you regard yourself in the mirror. Other than the four hickies you’ve got populating your neck, your boyfriend’s glittery lip gloss is all over your mouth.

“Well. It’s an improvement from this morning’s makeup job,” he remarks, and you shove him out of the bathroom.


	3. Waking Up Slow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first morning after Marilyn comes home from a tour, you two take it easy in bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Era: Heaven Upside Down

You yawn, and stretch as the sunlight seeps under the blackout curtains like light reflective honey.

“Damn. What happened last night?” Marilyn’s scratchy morning voice brings you to full attention. You give him a cozy smile.

“Probably the first normal night you’ve had since you got back from the tour.”

He eyes you. “Normal, okay. Nipple tassles? Strap on?”

“As I recall… you fell asleep on me while we were watching Texas Chainsaw and drooled all over my tits.”

“Kinky.”

“Oh, yeah. I think your last words to me were, "I bet Leatherface shoves the chainsaw up his ass while he masturbates”, then you passed out.“

"Welp. That’s what happens after a forty day long binge,” he yawns too, frowning in utter disorientation. You wipe some of his remaining eyeliner off with your thumb, and kiss his forehead.

“I’m pissed about that, you know,” you murmur. He hesitates, waiting for the inevitable mother-henning he’s been used to with past partners. You just cuddle into the nape of his neck. “I’m pissed I wasn’t there this time to binge with you.” He chuckles, wrapping his arms around you fondly.

“I fuckin love you, (y/n).”

He drags his fingers across your panties by accident, then realizes he doesn’t want to do it by accident but on purpose. He bites his lip, fingers barely grazing where you need him, and as you make noises, he starts to laugh.

“What?” you laugh with him.

“You sound like–” he giggles.

“Oh my god, I sound like the girl from the hotel room next to us that one time in Florida, I know,” you laugh, and he buries his face into your shoulder, snorting.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he imitates annoying, high pitched female moaning.

“Stoppit,” you laugh.

“It was like watching porn.”

“Really bad porn.”

“I was getting jealous,” he grins.

“I know, like, it was a Sunday at 4 am. Invite us or shut the fuck up.”

He bursts into laughter again, and you slide over top of him, humming. You straddle him, his hands holding your ass as you slowly move, comfortably grinding against his prominent morning wood as he gently runs his tongue along your lower lip. 

You two lay there, making out for about three minutes straight, his hand every so often moving up to rub your lower back, then back down to play with your ass. His eyes never open– it’s something so distinctly Marilyn. He’s self conscious in ways that astound you, but you respect it, and in some small way, you can tell he appreciates the sensation of it all with his eyes shut. It overwhelms you with warmth, and you sigh softly.

“Mmm, I could do this for hours,” you whisper. He stares up at you, eyelashes fluttering.

“But then we’d never get to the good part.” You giggle. “Baby, daddy’s got a taste of the icing, but he wants the whole damn cake,” he mutters, giving a sexy little snarl and kissing you again. He starts to grind his cock more heavily against you, and you have to laugh at how impatient he gets.

“I thought you said waking up slowly would be nice after all the chaos,” you tease, keeping yourself just inches from his lips. He gives you a petulant look.

“You know I never mean what I say.”

You laugh again, and he squeezes your ass. He sits up, half of his hair messed up in a wild bedhead. You stroke it out, and collapse against him, wrapping your arms around his comfy, chubby middle.

“I’m super horny,” you whine.

“Yeah, that’s really good then, cause so am I.”

“You’re always horny.”

He smiles, and as you really stare at him and take in how beautiful he looks in the morning, you see his cheeks tinge pink.

“That’s… a true statement.”

He reaches below the covers again, and grazes your panties. You moan softly, and he lifts his chin.

“That little touch feel good?”

“Mmm.”

“What do you say?”

You feel a little fire light inside of you, and smirk. “I want more.” Marilyn chuckles.

“Oh. Oh, so that’s how it’s gonna be. What do you say, little slut?” He threads his fingers through you hair and gives a gentle pull. You grin.

“I didn’t get enough, I wanna cum.”

“Mmm, try again.”

“Mm mm.”

“Mhmm, come on… say you need me. Say you want this dick inside you… pounding you good, sweetheart…”

You let out a huff, feeling your body betray you.

“I need you.”

“That’s right,” he coos.

You roll down beside him, pouting because you lost the intimidation game. Marilyn rolls over, and lays over top of you, supporting himself on his forearms.

“Don’t be like that, baby. I need you tooooo.”

“Hmph,” you pout, looking away. He strokes the hair from your face.

“Maybe… this would make you happy. Hm?” His low voice sends shivers through you as he brings a hand to pull down the covers, and he closes it around your breast, gently massaging it.

“Mmm,” you sigh, still trying to pout. Fuck, that feels good.

“You know you wanna beg for it,” he whispers. “Go on. Beg for it.”

“I don’t…” You gasp as he tweaks your nipple, and uses his other hand to tease your inner thighs. He knows all your weak spots.

“Mmm?” he encourages.

“I don’t…” You swallow your protests. “Fuck, I want it.”

“You want it?”

“I want it.”

He slips two fingers into your wetness and uses his thumb on your clit. He leans down to kiss you as he pumps his fingers deeper, curving them with each thrust.

“Ahh,” you moan, one hand clenching the sheets. One of his rings is still on, but it’s the pentagram one, so there’s no sharp edges and it’s stretching you even wider, so fuck it. You realize quickly that you shouldn’t just be lying there. You reach forward, and Marilyn groans softly into your mouth as you take his cock in hand.

“Sweetheart, sweetheart,” he whispers. The bed creaks as he begins to rock his hips into your fist. You use the lubricant of the precum dripping from his dick. A few seconds later, you start to wriggle your hips down, grinding, rolling your hips so every pump of Marilyn’s fingers sends electric jolts through you.

“I’m… coming, oh god,” you gasp, and he grimaces.

“Shit, me too, baby, me too…”

You both hold onto each other, moaning each other’s names and staying there for a few minutes; you have all the time in the world, and you’re not going anywhere.

“So,” you sigh contentedly, wiggling your hips back into his crotch to fit comfortably, “Let’s watch the end of Texas Chainsaw, since you fell asleep.”

“The ending, where my boy Leatherface jams an entire chainsaw up his asshole?”

“He does NOT–”

“Pretty sure he does.”

“Regardless,” you put a hand on his chest, “I’ve got an idea. Before we do, I’m gonna go get us some coffee at the Starbucks down the hill. Let’s do spooky things today, it’s my day off. Yours too.”

“What? Where are you going?” he moans, giving a petulant whine.

“Coffee!”

“I taste better.”

“I beg to differ,” you wrinkle your nose playfully, pulling your panties back on, “You need a shower.”

“I don’t want coffee, I want absinthe.”

“Well, I’m gonna get you a coffee to put absinthe in, then. What kind?”

He sheepishly looks out the window, and you grin.

“Pumpkin spice?”

“Yeah, but don’t tell anyone it’s mine.”

“Of course not,” you play along, “Both are totally for me, what are you talking about?”

He grins too, ducking his head, and slides out of bed toward the bathroom.

“Don’t be long. My dick already misses you.”

“Your dick has abandonment issues,” you retort, slipping on a thin camisole.

“I’d prefer to call it separation anxiety.”

You roll your eyes. “I’ll be back in 15.”

“5.”

“Fuck you, I’m not the six million dollar man.”

You head down the hill, and grab the coffee as Marilyn showers the forty day long tour binge off back at the house. When you get in, you find him toweling off in the bathroom, and slide him his coffee. He glances at the name written in black sharpie on the side.

“Charles Monroe. Very amusing.” Despite the sarcasm in his voice, he bursts into a little fit of childish giggles, as you sit up on the counter.

“I got yours with whip, mine without,” you say, licking the spice off his lid, “I’ve got to keep my figure for riding you.”

“Oh yeah?” he says, swiping a big glob of whipped cream off his. “Yeah?!” Your eyes widen, and you try to escape, but he catches you first and wipes it on your face. “You could have just gotten whip on yours, and dumped it on mine, so I had double,” he murmurs, eating the cream off your lips. He kisses down, licking up all the extra he missed down your neck, between your breasts. You moan, looping your arms around his neck.

“That’s really nice…”

“Let’s start our spooky day off, mmm,” he mumbles between kisses, “With more spooky sex. With spooky whips… and spooky chains… and chainsaws… mm, sounds like a song I should put on the new record…” He starts singing really terribly. “I wanna fuck yoooour vajayjay… with spooky chains and chainsaws… ayyyy….”

You give him two thumbs down, and he picks you up off the counter, swinging you back into the bedroom and falling onto the bed with you again, kissing down your neck.

You laugh, tilting your head back as his lips go even lower.

“Write a better song, and maybe I’ll fuck you again.”

“I don’t need… anybody else… when I think about you I fuck myself, ohhh–”

“It’s touch myself.”

“Naaah, I do more than that.”

You grin, squealing as his lips make it to your panties.


	4. Mephistopheles of Los Angeles: Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Johnny Depp are starring in a new movie, but though the characters you portray are lovers, you and Johnny are just friends, and you remain Hollywood’s hottest bachelorette. When Johnny introduces you to his best friend though, this is apt to change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Era: Pale Emporer

“A bunch of us are going to Marmont tonight. Come with?”

You look at Johnny Depp over your sparkling water. “Who’s us?”

“People you definitely want to meet and hang out with,” he smiles, finishing his champagne.

“Count me in. I’m never one to refuse a night of debauchery.”

“Lord knows,” Johnny chuckles, winking at you.

The movie the two of you star in comes out Friday. Everyone had been talking about your dark romance film, The Depraved, with you, excitement swelling around premier dates, Oscar buzz, all the great, surreal (and stressful) elements of being a working actress in Hollywood. But among all the surrealism, it’s normal to seek out normal, like minded friendships as a small haven within the madness, and with Johnny and his circle, you had found it. It wasn’t common for co-stars to stay friends and actually see one another off-set, but it had been a natural progression for you guys.

-

Climbing up the steps to the beautiful old West Hollywood building, you make it to the bar and restaurant area of the Chateau. Johnny leads you in, and you join a table of some musicians and fellow actors you had heard of but had never met. After you all had been introduced and complimented on your breakout role, everyone ordered drinks and appies. After a while the conversation just gravitated between you and Johnny, the others heading up to the veranda. Giggling about something, the two of you are interrupted by someone.

“Did you motherfuckers start this little thingie without me?" 

You turn, and cock your eyebrow. A striking, dapper man stands towering above you, dressed in a charcoal black suit that exudes expensive. His hair and sunglasses are just as black, as are the fingerless gloves he’s wearing. He looks like he’s trying to bring goth back, and doing a damn fine job of it. You take a celebratory sip of your drink. Johnny was right when he said these were friends you wanted to make. 

Johnny leans back in his chair, greeting his close friend. ”(y/n), may I introduce you to the one and only Manson.“

"That’s funny,” you say, getting up to get a good look at him, “I don’t see a swastika carved in your forehead.”

He smirks, taking your hand. “First name’s not Charlie, it’s Marilyn.” He cocks his head. “Other first name’s Brian. I’ve also been called the man with the golden dick, but that’s a little too long.” Marilyn pauses. “Just like my dick.” 

What an introduction. Right off the bat, you can sense his no-fucks-to-give attitude and suave demeanour. You match it with some wit.

“How long is too long?” 

“Wanna find out?” He bites his lip. Heat and energy rages through your mirrored gaze. Johnny looks between you two.

“Hey. Don’t find out right now, we’re drinking right now.”

“Johnny can tell you how long it is.”

“I can’t. I forgot. Come drink.”

“Awww,” Marilyn drapes himself over the movie star’s shoulders, giving him a hug, “Must do what Johnny wants. Wouldn’t want Johnny to be sad.”

Johnny kisses Marilyn’s knuckles, and shoves him off. Marilyn finds a seat beside you, and takes off his sunglasses.

He hums as the waiter comes over. “I’ll have whatever she’s having, a double gin martini,” he comments, and takes a sip of your drink. He holds up a finger. “Wait. I’ll have the double gin martini, but hold the gin, hold the martini, and substitute them both for absinthe.”

As if used to the musician’s antics, the waiter just smiles, nods obligingly, and leaves. Johnny takes a long sip of his whiskey as Marilyn watches you.

“What got you into acting?” he asks.

You shrug. “I basically lived in a fantasy growing up, since I wasn’t happy with the real world. Why not bring that to life?”

“So you’ve got a good imagination,” he comments.

“I like to think so.”

“Imagination is what gives artists their power, and I think that’s a really special thing.”

You smile at him. “You do anything other than sing?”

“Yeah, I fuck.” His lips turn up sarcastically. “And I paint. I paint and act.”

“You’ve dabbled in acting?”

“Yeah, I was on Sons of Anarchy. And I did this little indie too.”

You examine him. He doesn’t seem like the “actor” type, or what you’ve seen of it here.

“I’d like to see your paintings. Inspired by anyone in particular?”

“Well, at the end of the day, paintings are just your interpretations and perversions of the world you see, so it’s hard to have inspiration for that other than from your own schizophrenic worldview. But my way of thinking artistically and visually when it comes to my art has been influenced by Dali, I’d say most.”

“Lots of clocks?” you joke. He grins at your joke, surprised you even know what he’s talking about.

“Significantly lacking clocks,” he laughs, “That’s where he and I part ways. I paint darker. More romantic, in a way.”

“Oh. You’re a romantic?”

He takes off his jacket, and looks at you with a curious, drawn sort of gaze. “No.”

Johnny brings the waiter back to whisper for another round for you and himself already, and smiles at the two of you.

Four martinis in, and just as many absinthes and whiskies for the others, you feel the heat return to not only your gaze toward Marilyn, but travelling downward. You let out a soft moan, taking the last sip of your martini.

“–Riding me, take after take, but of course it wasn’t me, it was this strange, sock-like codpiece, with my hands on her ass, and then she told the director,” Johnny giggles, hair mussed and eyelids drooping, “To fuck himself with a plastic knife, she wasn’t doing it anymore! THAT is how I knew this girl was one of us.”

“I’m not usually that mean,” you pout, “I was just really sleep deprived, and…”

“Why a plastic knife?” Marilyn slurs, bumping his shoulder into you. You revel in the feeling of it– any touch from him right now was sending you through the roof. “I mean, why not threaten the real thing?”

“It doesn’t matter what kind of… knife,” you interject, “It was intended to be a… I was saying he should, not me… fuck…”

“What were we talking about?” Marilyn laughs, practically falling into you, “Fucking people’s asses with knives?”

“Hot,” you joke.

“Grotesque,” Johnny corrects.

“Thank you, I’ll accept both,” Marilyn says, and takes another drink.

Your hand falls somewhere, and you find after a few minutes that you can feel your nerve endings again. _Do you have to be on set tomorrow at 5? Fuck fuck fuck– oh no, no. The movie wrapped six months ago._ You let out a laugh, and Marilyn turns.

“What’s so funny…?”

“She was laughing at you,” Johnny slurs.

“I wasn’t,” you giggle, “I was… it doesn’t matter. Where’s my hand?”

“Somewhere it shouldn’t be,” Marilyn murmurs in your ear, voice low and gravelly. You look down, seeing you had been holding yourself up with your hand splayed open on his upper thigh. “See babygirl,” he continues, “You’re about half an inch away from passing the point of no return. See you rub me there, we gotta fuck– I don’t make the rules.”

You bite your lip, breathing in his scent. He smells unique– like the crisp sting of absinthe mixed with some kind of spice, and the trace of a herb that might be weed, might just be herbal tea. You love how mysterious this man is.

But though you’re younger, more wide-eyed in general, you understand the game as well as any. And the game was the best part.

“I should get going,” you smile, sliding your hand safely down to his knee. “I can’t even remember my name.”

He groans, rubbing his face and smudging his black eyeliner in doing so. You idly notice that while his eyes are all messed up, his crimson lipstick has stayed perfectly intact…

“I’ll help you out. I think we’re both in the same boat here.” He wobbles a little. “Shall we?” He stands, offering his arm for you to take. You feel like some sort of lady, with a vampiric prince escorting you into the night. He feels regal, yet filthy, composed but fucked up. You can’t understand it, and you love it.

Johnny follows behind you two, placing an unlit joint between his lips to prepare for emergence outside. You narrow your eyes and cringe a little at the brightness of the full moon. The stars are out, and standing by the bushes, you can see Hollywood’s golden blanket of light in the immediate distance, the Chateau behind you looming like an old Gothic manner from a period novel.

“Well. I must say, Miss (y/l/n), it was almost a pleasure to meet you,” Marilyn takes your hand in his again, kissing it with a kiss precise enough to make him appear sober– almost. You groan, feeling his tongue swipe across the skin, and you just can’t help it.

“Do you kill people who mess up your lipstick?” you grin, looping your arms around his neck. His eyes roll down to meet yours, lips parting as much as you wanted your legs to.

“Nah. I kill for people who mess up my lipstick.” With stumbled footwork and a trip that you don’t really register, Marilyn presses his lips to yours, causing you both to walk backward into the bushes.

“Mmm,” you moan, clinging to his back as you deepen the kiss. His tongue slips into your mouth, and his hands slide down to your ass, groping you there. Your hands travel down to his as well, as you two spin, clutching and kissing.

“PAP!”

You turn when you hear the call, his crimson lipstick smudged all over your chin. Johnny frowns as well, turning to where someone had called it out. Then his eyes widen.

“Shit, get the fuck out of the bushes you two! Paparazzi!”

Marilyn groans, and you wipe at your lips, turning away from the flashes of the camera. You make sure to distance yourself from him, walking away with Johnny as Marilyn gets into his own ride.

“Oh god,” you moan.

“Don’t worry about it love,” Johnny comforts, draping his tux jacket over your head to protect you from the cameras, “Tomorrow’s for damage control. Tonight’s for living.”

As you duck your spinning head to get into the car, you lick your lips to taste him still there.


	5. Mephistopheles Of Los Angeles: Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the kiss, it’s impossible to avoid the press. But behind closed doors, there’s no reason to deny that you two have a connection. AKA Marilyn invites you and Johnny over to his place for a night of fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Era: Pale Emporer

You sit up by your window, watching the pool glisten. You can’t come out and say anything– he was probably drunk. But, you two did have that magnificent conversation before the drinks came around… there was definitely a connection there.

As if you two shared a mind, just as you’re about to pick up the phone to call Johnny, his ID shows up on your screen.

“Hey,” you say.

“Morning, sunshine,” he says, his voice cracking from an obvious hangover, “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”

You groan, sliding the curtains shut and blocking out the sun. He laughs.

“Hey, what if–” Just then, someone else starts to call through. It’s an unknown number. You really shouldn’t answer, you being who you are… but there’s a glimmer of misplaced hope inside you, leftover from last night maybe.

“I’ll call you back, kay?” you mumble, and swipe on the call. “Yeah?”

“Hey.” It’s him, deep, gravelly voice and all.

“Hey.” You pull your feet up to your chest. “What’s going on?”

“I was hoping– I got your number from Depp by the way, so I’m not a stalker– that you guys’d come over to my place, like, tomorrow night. Night before your premiere. We could celebrate properly.”

“Sounds great,” you smile. “How are you not hungover?”

“I am, I’m just a good faker.” He pauses. “It felt good to unwind with you last night. I… appreciate company like yours. I also appreciate that that was the sexiest kiss I’ve had in like, ten years.” That’s all he says, then he hangs up. Sober, he’s a very somber person… but his drunk side shines through every now and then it seems. Smirking, you stand, and start to think about a shower. Johnny will probably be getting a call next.

-

The next night, the three of you are situated in Marilyn’s living room, the thermostat set to cool air and a low soundtrack of David Bowie floating in the background.

“Cherry. Blood red. So we can pretend we’re vampires.” A pyramid of jello boxes sit on his counter top, three bottles of Absinthe that would be used instead of water.

“We basically are,” Johnny comments idly, watching a fly crawl along the counter.

“Or, or we can pretend we’re eating flesh,” Marilyn continues, shaking one packet out into the bowl, “Absinthe and flesh. Or we can pretend (y/n) is menstruating, and–”

Both you and Johnny groan loud enough to drown out the rock star’s ravings, and finally he concedes, adding the absinthe (mostly) silently. Ultimately however, Johnny is unable to restrain himself from pitching in. “Who would want to eat a woman out on her period though?”

“You’d be surprised,” you answer that one, swinging your legs over Marilyn’s velvet couch.

“I wouldn’t mind it,” Marilyn offered, licking the cherry goop off his tattooed fingers, “If I was like, an actual vampire.”

This sets Johnny off again, and as he’s laughing, you saunter up to Marilyn, wrapping your arms around him from behind.

“And what if you weren’t a vampire?”

“You mean if I didn’t need to stick my tongue in a reservoir of ovum littered blood?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I know girls get aroused on their period, because their hormones are raging. So if my girl was horny as fuck for me on her period and wanted me to eat her pussy, I mean, I wouldn’t say no.”

You pat his cheek. “A true gentleman.”

“I’ve always wondered this– when you fuck a girl on her period and she cums, is it like a dam of blood breaking?”

“What, like the parting of the red sea?” Johnny frowns. Marilyn considers this.

“More like… Titanic, but… the Titanic is your dick.”

“Completely false,” you say, and both guys look over to you, legitimately interested. “It’s the opposite. At least for me. The blood stops for a bit, then… comes back with a vengeance once all your wetness has returned from whence it came.”

“Very interesting, love,” Johnny says, getting up and pouring himself another drink.

“I love being educated in the vaginal arts,” Marilyn says, making obscene slurping noises as he licks the rest of his fingers clean.

As the night wears on the three of you (plus Lily) put down bottle after bottle, smoke a couple of joints, and finish the red coagulated creation. Once two AM hits, the conversation deepens, and the guitar breaks out.

“It’s gonna be hell for you answering questions about those pictures this weekend, (y/n),” Johnny says, strumming the acoustic instrument.

“I know. The questions I get are so dumb, I’ve already had a billion asking about you and me and if we’re dating. Just because two people play love interests–”

“And have fabulous onscreen chemistry,” Johnny adds.

“Yes, doesn’t mean we should get… _shipped_!” Angrily, you exhale a cloud of smoke, the joint hanging lazily between your fingers.

“It’s because the media’s bullshit consists of asking why male artists do what they do, and asking female artists why they fuck who they fuck,” Marilyn mutters candidly, stealing the joint.

“Load of crap,” Johnny nods, playing a riff of The Beautiful People.

“I like you… though,” Marilyn mumbles, glancing your way.

“I like you too,” you blink.

“I would’ve fucked you y'know… if the paparazzi weren’t such cockblocking motherfuckers…”

“I know. When it comes to the press though, we’ve gotta make it look like an accident if they did get pictures.”

“Which they did,” Johnny nodded, “I already saw one this morning titled _"Chateau Marmont’s Wild Nightlife: Johnny Depp blazes one while rising co-star and shock-rocker best friend get ‘cheeky’ in the bushes.”_ Now we’ve got not only rumours about you and me to deal with but you and this fuck.“ This makes Marilyn laugh.

"I’m just known as the best friend now? Wow.” He touches his wow tattoo, holding it up.

“You’re faded, man.”

“Faded, faithful, and _fuckin’_ fatal.”

“They make me look like a fucking stoner now, so I’m not much better.”

“You are a fucking stoner.”

“I’m Jack Sparrow, mate.”

“You’re a fucking stoner.”

You just roll your eyes as they bicker. You remember what your agent told you– if it’s not purposefully publicized, it’s messy, and messy doesn’t sell. Guess that’s what it’s like in the Hollywood dating pool.

“Nah, but of course we’ve gotta deny all of it,” Marilyn sighs. “It would blow up your career in a not-good way cause they’d say this young, impressionable starlet is dating a satanist, or whatever they call me, and I don’t really feel like answering a billion stupid questions about you either at this point, not when I’m trying to promote my record. They’re going crazy over this cause you’re so popular right now, (y/n). It’ll be all over People and the internet and shit.”

“Covering personal shit is the worst part of this job,” Johnny mutters. “Unless it’s a story about smuggling cocaine into the Pirates premiere.”

“Wasn’t that at Disneyland?” you frown.

Marilyn and Johnny both nod noncommittally.

“Worth it,” Johnny says, holding his guitar with one hand and flicking a piece of the blood red Jell-O onto the ceiling with a spoon.

“Clean that up,” Marilyn grins.

“Lick it off, mate,” Johnny laughs. It suddenly falls, and with a jiggle, lands between your breasts. You yelp as it splatters into your cleavage, and the two men fall to the floor laughing.

“Mmmmhmmhmm,” Marilyn smiles, crawling over to you on his hands and knees with tipsy half-lidded eyes, “I think I will lick it off.” He straddles you on the armchair, one leg on either side, and puts his face into your tits, his tongue sweeping deep licks between, up, down, ugh…

“Fuck, you’re making me horny,” you whisper. Johnny giggles, standing and snatching a small bag and heading up to Marilyn’s pool patio with his guitar. 

“See you two in the morning.”

“Don’t drown,” you call up.

“I don’t want to have to clean up your chlorine bloated corpse in the morning,” Marilyn adds.

“I will leave you the sexiest corpse you could possibly imagine, brother,” Johnny calls back down, stumbling up the stairs. You and Marilyn turn your attention back to one another.

“Your tits taste good,” he comments, eyes flickering lazily back down to them.

“My pussy tastes even better,” you grin, taking his hand and sliding it down between your legs. He rubs it against you, and comes up with slick fingers.

“Bedroom.”

His bed is covered in black silk sheets, a satin cover blanketed overtop of them. Messy piles of books and records litter the floor, and creepy artefacts you wouldn’t want to see with a light on surround everything on bookshelves.

“You have blacklights?” you ask, looking around the dark, mysterious room.

“To admire the cum shots on the ceiling,” he clarifies.

“Oh, is that all?”

“–But I don’t like to call it cum, I like to call it… making wet in you,” he giggles.

“Mmm, make wet in me?”

“I would love to make wet in you.”

Before you can say anything else, he grabs you by the hips, shoving you forward onto the bed. You land on your stomach, and he stands behind you as you turn your head.

“Take your panties off,” he says in a low, level voice, as if he had sobered up in seconds. You feel your bratty side coming out.

“What if I don’t?”

He lifts his chin up, looking like a king. “Get on your hands and knees… arch your back and present your ass for me. It’s a really pretty ass, I just wanna look at it. Promise.”

You do so, and wait in the darkness. After a second, you feel his tongue dart out, licking a stripe up your panties from behind. Then he smacks your ass hard. “Ohgod,” you whisper, and he smiles.

“You look so good like this.” You flip over, and crawl up to the headboard, hanging on. “Why don’t you spread your legs for daddy?”

“Why don’t you spread them for me, daddy? I’m a little bit tired.”

“Lazy little bitch,” he mumbles, sliding his hand between your legs. It rests on your knee, then you feel the pressure of him parting your thighs. He rolls over on top of you, and for a moment, you think he’s going to instigate a kiss. You part your lips, waiting for him. Instead, he slides down like a snake between those parted thighs and hooks his fingers into your panties.

“Just lick around them,” you smirk, biting your lip.

“Uh, uh. I want to enjoy my meal,” he drawls, and pulls them off down to your ankle.

“Eat my pussy good, baby.”

“Oh, I plan to.”

“Gonna fuck me after that?”

“You know I am, kitten.”

He delves between your folds again, making low noises. His hands reach up to grope and grab at whatever they can; your hips, your breasts, your inner thighs. After a moment, you gasp as he slips two fingers into you, then three, fucking you rough with them.

“That’s–” You gasp, grinding into his face, “That’s so good…”

He hums, the vibration of his lips against your clit driving you wild.

“How fuckin’ close are you?” he hisses.

“So fucking close,” you whine.

“Cum for me. Make wet… in my face.”

“God, you’re gonna ruin my ladyboner by saying shit like that!”

A few more masterful circles of his tongue however, and you do cum, gripping the boards for dear life.

“Grab my–” he murmurs, “Grab my hair, love it when it’s– oh, tugged–”

Your hands fly to his hair, and you tug the short black locks as he fucks you with his tongue through your orgasm. Giving you a moment to breathe, he flashes his dark glare up between your legs, eyes shining almost demonically in the dark.

“Fuck me, Brian,” you breathe. He crawls up on top of you, holding you by your shoulders as he guides his dick between your legs. When he finally pushes in, he gives a grunt as you moan, wrapping your legs around his ass.

“So fucking good,” he groans, and you bite into his shoulder.

“Ohhh yeah, oh yeah,” you moan, and he suddenly pulls out.

“Back on your hands and knees, kitten.” You obey this time, fucked out but wanting more. He smacks your ass again, and you moan, wiggling back. He spanks you again, and again, and you bite your fist. “Nah, nah,” he whispers, “I wanna hear you. Get fuckin’ loud, scream it out.”

You very nearly scream as he spanks you again, and presses soft kisses up your back, turning into hickies by the top between your shoulder blades.

“Wanna ride you,” you breathe. Wordlessly, he lays down, and you roll over top of him, getting into reverse cowgirl position. With another gasp, you sink down over his big cock, and roll your hips.

“That’s good,” he groans, “Fuckkkk yeah, that’s good.”

“Daddy, daddy–” you gasp.

“Daddy’s gonna make you cum,” he whispers, reaching up and around to squeeze your breast. He sits up, so that his chest is pressed to your back, and the angle makes you moan even louder. “I gotchu,” he whispers in your ear, “I gotchu, I gotchu, gonna take real good care of you… cause you’re takin real good care of me…”

You nearly sob as you reach back and grab his hair, and he sinks his teeth into your shoulder as you had done with him. You feel a bit of blood drip, and cum hard. Marilyn increases his pace as he feels you gush around his cock, pounding you harder than ever. Skin slaps against skin as he fucks you on his lap, and your orgasm keeps burning through you as he mumbles growled-out words of praise.

When you finally come back down to earth, he’s pressing kisses to the bite mark, which felt good in the moment, but stings like hell now.

“Guess you’re a real fucking vampire, Manson,” you giggle. He nuzzles his nose into your neck, laughing.


	6. Mephistopheles Of Los Angeles: Part III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s no way you can go public about your involvement with Marilyn, but yours and Johnny’s premiere is tonight. You’d better figure out how to handle this ‘torrid affair’, and fast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Era: Pale Emporer

This isn’t your first premiere, but the flashing lights and screaming fans are a tad surprising at first. Thankfully, you know how to handle yourself. Your strapless, form-fitting burgundy Givenchy dress accentuates everything you (and the general public) love about your body, with a simple diamond choker underneath your tied up hair completing the look. Your eyes are smoky rimmed with charcoal, because you borrowed Marilyn’s eyeliner this morning. Yeah. You did that.

“This should be fun,” you sigh, beaming and waving out the window as you and Johnny arrive in the limo. You both get out, posing, smiling, greeting. “Why’d the story have to break before tonight?”

“Why’d you have to make out with Manson in the bloody bushes?” he volleys back in amusement, giving a wave and a smoulder to a gaggle of fans screaming his name.

“Technically this is your fault,” you smirk, turning back to flash one last smile behind you before walking the carpet, “You introduced him to me.”

“And forgot to warn you about his deadly charm?”

“Exactly. Good god, Depp, he is magnificent in bed, you could’ve fucking warned me!”

“You never asked,” he teases.

“(y/n)! (y/n)!” A lady in the line up of reporters by the carpet barricades calls, waving you over. “Lisa Waters, Entertainment Tonight!”

“Have fun in hell darling,” Johnny whispers, chuckles, and disappears behind you to get more photos taken.

“And he’s gone!” you say dramatically, waving after him with silent embitterment. The reporter jams a microphone in your face, as she stares after Johnny.

“People are speculating all over the place about you two!”

_Here we go._

“I can say, definitively, speaking for myself and Johnny, we are not involved, and never plan to be.”

“So you don’t get along as well as it seems like you do?”

“I didn’t say that. Johnny and I got very close during shooting–”

“Very close?”

“Yes, we became very good friends.”

Since she isn’t getting what she wants out of you with this line of questioning, the reporter sets her jaw and switches tactics. “There’s also been fresh rumours of you and goth rock star Marilyn Manson swirling. Any comment on your budding romance?”

You laugh, keeping the butterflies in your stomach at bay. “Even if I did have anything going with Marilyn, it would not be best described as a budding romance.”

“But TMZ released photos of the two of you kissing in the bushes outside Chateau Marmont just this past weekend!”

“Honestly, Linda–”

“Lisa.”

“Yeah, honestly I don’t remember that night, but I’m sure it was just a good-bye kiss. I was probably too drunk to stick around, he was seeing me off. You know how it–”

“But it looks like you’re groping each other!”

“Well, Marilyn likes to get friendly. So do I.”

With a sardonic little smile, you end the rest of her interrogation, and move on to the next news caster before she can continue drilling you. You shoot Johnny a “help me” glance, but he just cringes, making it clear that relationship concealment is 100% not his forte. 

The rest of the night consists of questions not unlike those, and you continue to answer them until another stretch pulls up.

Marilyn gets out.

You instantly look over at Johnny. Johnny shrugs. _“I invited him,” _he mouths, and you sigh, already feeling yourself get warm. Even if he wasn’t on the guest list, nobody was about to throw Marilyn Manson out, so they let him in. Marilyn gives a salute to the cameras in those black leather fingerless gloves, and meets your eye. He smirks your way, and you feel your cheeks heat up, recalling all the stuff you two had gotten up to last night. He corrects his smirk, straightening his face again and posing.

“Can you tell us anything about your fling with shock rocker Marilyn Manson?” a male reporter asks you, another three microphones in your face.

“Only that it didn’t happen,” you reply coolly, picturing how he fingered you until you screamed last night.

“Really? Because–”

“Didn’t happen,” you reiterate, and slip into the crowd of cast, executives, and critics moving inside the theatre. Marilyn stops by one reporter who seems insistent.

“Hello,” he mumbles, keeping his head low and sunglasses on.

“Hey, having a good night so far, Marilyn?”

“It’s been good for the five minutes I’ve been here, yeah.”

Missing his sarcasm, the overzealous reporter beams. “Awesome! Great to see you here celebrating your friend, so soon after being out in Europe on tour!”

“Yeah, I always try to come out for Johnny’s movies, I think to give him moral support,” Marilyn smirks, “Cause without me around, we all know he would just be a wreck. Completely depressed, unable to function.”

“Right,” the reporter nods artificially, oblivious as to how to handle Marilyn’s interviewing style. “Anyway, are you really here for Johnny?”

“Explain.” He doesn’t lose his footing, but he’s caught off guard.

“Are you here for (y/n), your latest lover?” Marilyn smiles at her.

“Where do you get your facts?”

“Those photos are serious evidence that–”

“Evidence, you make it seem like a crime scene, like she’s a murder victim of mine.” Now he’s deliberately screwing with the reporter, and she looks a little frightened.

“Right. Can you confirm you are dating (y/n) (y/l/n)?”

“We’re just friends,” he insists, thinking of the way your back arched last night as he ate you out.

“But the k–”

“It was just a kiss,” he shakes his head, “I kiss lots of people. I kiss my cat. I kiss Johnny. I’ve kissed Obama.” 

“Do you consider yourself a romantic?”

“Not with (y/n). I’ve gotta go get my seat inside, before Benicio Del Toro tells them I’m not on the guest list.”

“…You have a good night, then.”

“You as well.”

Indoors, you sit down in your seat beside your cast members, and see Marilyn coming in, undoing the bottom button on his black tux and looking for a seat. You try to put your mind somewhere else to watch your work.

The film starts about a half hour later and plays your brilliantly fake sex scene with Johnny (the codpiece riding one). However, despite the hilarious memories shooting this scene conjures up for you, you can’t take your mind off of Marilyn. He’s unlike anyone you ever dated. He’s open, at least with you; he’s calm, funny, sexy as hell… _fuck, he was so good last night, and you want more. You want so much fucking more._

-

After the movie gets out, you prepare to do a few more interviews before the night is over. At this point, you’re high on life, feeling good, and feeling dangerous with Marilyn so close to you. Really… what would be the harm in…?

“Congratulations on the film (y/n), you and Mr. Depp were wonderful,” one man from Starz says, walking briskly alongside you. Marilyn purses his lips on the other side of Johnny as you three walk from the Chinese Theatre toward the limos.

“Thank you, we had such an amazing time filming it,” you reply.

“And, eh…” the man hesitates, “Quick question before we lose you here. You’ve discounted all rumours of you and Mr. Depp dating as false. Are you and Mr. Manson involved?” You sigh. 

_Fuck it. Like Johnny said– tomorrow’s for damage control. Tonight’s for living. _

“Hell yeah we’re involved,” you grin, and Johnny holds in a burst of laughter, expression a mix of astonishment and pride. Marilyn jerks his head over, and a small smile tugs at his painted lips.

“We’re dating?” he smirks, crossing over to stand beside you. “I wish you would’ve told me.” With that, he dips you low into a kiss, and sticks a tattooed middle finger into the lens of the guy’s camera.


	7. Rock Star Antics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're a groupie during the Twins of Evil tour. One night at a bar, the God of Fuck instigates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Era: Heaven Upside Down
> 
> Featuring Rob Zombie smut!

It’s late, but the night is just beginning.

You get a few nights off during the week between shows, and right now, the tour had set the anchor down in Montana. The horror-themed dive bar is rowdy and fun, but you’re having even more fun, seated between the two men who love you the most– Marilyn Manson and Rob Zombie.

It had been an impulsive decision to join the two on their Twins of Evil tour for the summer, but it had paid off. They had invited you along after meeting you one night, and ever since, you had been spending the dog days of summer as the plaything of two sexy shock rockers.

One order of monster nachos (with vegan cheese for Rob) is barely enough for the three of you, but you’ve got your minds on drinking. Marilyn is nursing absinthe, no chaser, but he can handle his shit. Rob’s on his third beer, but he’s pretty much in the same boat– both of them could drink you under the table, so you’re just stealing sips here and there from both.

After taking the drop of absinthe from Marilyn’s offered glass, you drop your napkin, and crawl down to get it. Once you’re under the table, crawling around to look, Marilyn stops you with his foot. You can hear his voice, clear, level, and drawling despite the laze of the liquor dripping through:

“You’ll stay under there until I say, baby girl. Mkay?”

_Oh. So this is how tonight’s gonna go._

“Yes, daddy,” you whisper, tingles running through you. You wait obediently, hands in your lap. He brushes off his black pants. “Now. While you’re down there, you might as well make yourself useful. I want you to give Rob the best blowjob he’s ever had.”

Rob pauses halfway through drinking his Corona down, and coughs. “What?”

You look over to the denim-clad legs of Rob, who had probably been off in his head somewhere. You laugh, as he now looks dumbfounded.

“What?” Marilyn repeats calmly, folding his hands on the table, “Never had a girl suck you off in public, Zombie?" 

"Uhh, first of all no– second, how the fuck is she supposed to do that? We’re already being hyper-scrutinized.”

Marilyn looks around as if to challenge this. Rob sputters.

“We’re rock stars, man! Everyone knows who we are here!”

“Then they won’t be surprised when we engage in some rock star-esque antics,” Marilyn cracks a smirk, and unfolds his hands. He snaps his fingers under the table, and you crawl to his side obediently. Rob is still reeling as Marilyn takes your chin between his fingers. He strokes your cheek.

“What does our girl say? Hm? She gonna be good, and do like daddy asked?”

“Mhmm,” you nod, wicked smirk on your lips. You lick them, and Marilyn appreciates this, biting his own lip. 

“Then fucking do it.”

With a shove from Manson, you crawl Rob’s way, and the latter takes a deep breath.

“Hey,” Marilyn smiles his way, “Enjoy.”

“Yeah,” Rob muses, watching you on your hands and knees beneath him, looking up and batting your eyelashes. “Yeah. You want my cock bad, huh?”

“Uh huh,” you flash him up a grin, rubbing your hands up his knees. He strokes your hair.

“Gonna give it to me good?”

“You know it, daddy.”

“Welp… guess you know what to do, babygirl. Get to it.”

Never breaking eye contact, you reach your hands up to Rob’s jeans. He goes to pop the button for you.

“No,” Marilyn interjects, “That’s her job. She knows her place.”

You nod eagerly, and Rob takes his hands off his jeans, opting instead to stroke them through your hair in encouragement. You finish unzipping his pants, and, making sure he’s fully covered by the tablecloth, you take his cock out. He’s half hard already, and it won’t take him long to get all the way up—Rob likes to think he’s good at resisting you, but all you have to do is brush him in that general region and he has to hide an erection.

He doesn’t have to hide it now.

You take his hand, and thread your fingers through his as you use your other one to hold him and take him in your mouth.

Rob lets out a low moan as his tip hits the back of your throat, and the sound goes straight to your pussy. You squirm a little bit as you arch your back, and start really working on him.

Rob starts to white knuckle the table, and tips his head forward, grinding his jaw. “Fuck,” he hisses, hips pushing forward. 

“You can do it,” you mumble, as quietly as you can, “You can fuck my mouth.”

Rob’s dark gaze flickers down to you. “Yeah? You that much of a slut tonight, you wanna choke on my dick?”

“Uh huh.”

“Alright. Better give the girl what she wants, I mean…”

His hips rock forward faster, and you almost choke on him. You relax your throat so he has more room, and put your hands on his thighs.

“Yeah, that’s fuckin’ good.”

You feel his hips stutter a little, and his fingers tighten in your hair to the point of pleasurable pain; you’ve discovered his weakness. You move your fingers up and in a little, and dig your nails into his inner thighs. He tugs your hair hard, and you moan.

“Aww, fuck yeah, coming, coming–” he gasps, and you feel him come in your mouth. You wait, sucking him through it, listening to his hot, heavy breathing.

You wipe your mouth, smirking up at him, and he bites his lip.

“What I would do to you jf we were in the hotel room, babydoll.”

You giggle, and crawl on your hands and knees over to your other daddy, just the way he likes you.

“Your turn?”

“The fact that you even have to ask is disappointing,” he drawls, so you pout.

“Sorry, daddy. Make it up to you?”

“Yes you can.” Marilyn gestures regally, and you get to work on unbuttoning him. He smiles. “Look at her, Zombie. Practically drooling. She just took one big cock, now she can’t wait to take another.”

Rob shakes his head fondly, taking another sip of a new beer. “You know how she gets. Little fucking slut, man.” He looks down again. “You’re our little slut, aren’t you?”

“Yes daddy,” you respond, perking your breasts up. He motions over.

“Take care of him how you took care of me.”

You turn back to your work, listening to Marilyn’s hum of approval as you take him in your mouth.

“Take it. Take all of it, that’s right. That’s all you’re good for.” Marilyn sneers down at you, exposing his silver grill, and you get even wetter, reaching down to start rubbing yourself. Rob swears under his breath, watching you. Suddenly, you hear another voice.

“Can I get you two any more drinks?” A pause. “Weren’t you two gentlemen here with someone?”

“I wouldn’t call us gentlemen,” you hear Rob chuckle, and you dodge Marilyn’s kick to Rob’s shin.

“We’ll have another round. Our lovely lady is powdering her nose.” Another pause. “I realize coming from me that means cocaine. It does not mean cocaine in this case.” The waitress seems satisfied with this.

“Be right back with that.”

“Man, how do you keep so chill like that while you’ve got (y/n)’s fucking mouth around you?” Rob whispers. “I’d be all over the map.”

“It’s an art.”

“Yeah, sure. Are you high?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

“I’m not.” Marilyn grins. “I’m tipsy and relaxed. And when I’m tipsy and relaxed, I get frisky.” He strokes your hair and groans in praise.

“You’re doing so perfect, sweetheart,” he whispers, tipping your chin, and watches for a second as you lick and suck his cock. “Gorgeous.”

“Getting tipsy makes you frisky?” Rob asks.

“Unlike you. You turn into a curmudgeon.”

“Do not.”

“At least I don’t get turned on watching Frankenstein.”

“Hey, if it gets the job done, it gets the job done,” Rob shrugs.

“I like getting pounded while watching Frankenstein,” you grin, popping off for a second.

“The lady has spoken, Manson. Suck it,” Rob laughs.

“I think she’s doing a fine enough job of that,” Marilyn says, and his breath hitches. You can tell by the way he’s tensing up that he’s close.

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s so good, baby… so good, baby…” he’s chanting. Just as he’s lifting out of his seat, just hitting his climax, the waitress comes back.

“T-th-th-thank y-ohhhyeah,” Marilyn leans back in his chair, eyes rolling back, and biting his bottom lip hard as his whole body shudders. It’s pretty fucking obvious now what’s happening, and Rob is losing his shit. He stops laughing for a second to point to his co-headliner.

“I’ll have what he’s having!”

When she’s gone, you crawl out. Some people probably saw– tabloids too, but fuck it. You had fun.

Marilyn puts his hand over yours on the table, tracing a pattern into your palm. Rob takes the other hand, squeezing it. “You know how much we love you, baby girl?” Marilyn asks.

“A whole hell of a lot,” Rob takes the last nacho, and leans over to give you a kiss.


	8. Motel Hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You, your boyfriend Brian, and his best friend Jeordie are forced by lack of finances to share a hotel room one night while Brian’s band performs in Miami Beach. You two have to be quiet not to wake Jeordie…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Era: Spooky Kids

** _July 17, 1992._ **

“I’ve got… thirteen dollars.”

Everyone (aka you, Brian and Jeordie) is sitting around in a circle on Jeordie’s messy living room floor.

You and your boyfriend look over to the bassist.

“Thirteen?” Brian sputters, “You stupid fucker, you had 500 dollars last night. Where the hell’d all that go, up your ass?”

Jeordie picks at a hangnail. “Hookers and blow.” He begins to pat his leg, drumming a beat. “We should make that a song…”

“We have better things to sing about than hookers and blow,” Brian snaps.

“I don’t know, I think it’d go with your whole theme,” you tease, resting your head on his shoulder. Brian glances down, gaze softening fondly as his fingers thread with yours.

“Yeah, says the girl who probably encouraged him to burn our valuable hotel money on dumb shit last night.”

You giggle. “I promise, I had nothing to do with it. Besides, I was with you last night, remember?” Brian smirks, recalling the record you two set.

“Yeah. I remember making you come a bunch of times. What was the challenge again?”

“I dared you to make me come more times than my vibrator could in one night.”

“Mmm, and did I pass?”

“With flying colours.”

Jeordie whistles, then tries to flip one of the coins from the pooling pile on the floor. It pings off something then disappears into the pit that is his studio apartment.

“Twelve seventy five,” Jeordie corrects, staring sadly behind him at the lost quarter. Brian shakes his head, scratching through his hair.

“Jesus Christ, what are we gonna do?! This is a huge stop on the tour. Daisy, Pogo and Sarah are already there, and the Spooky Kids can’t afford to cancel this show because we’re… fuckin broke hobos!”

“I’m not a hobo…” Jeordie whispers, watching an ant crawl across his toe. Brian scrapes up some bills to count again, painted fingernails a blur as he shells them out. You count your own too, nodding.

“Okay. I’ve got 210. Together with your 600… we should have enough for airfare and hotel room, for one night.”

Jeordie gives a punched out snort-laugh, staring at the cieling like it’s about to cave in. “Yeah, for one shared room between the three of us.”

You and Brian look at each other, shrugging. Jeordie hesitates, then looks at you two in distress.

“Awww.”

So, the next day, after successfully making it to the next stop on the Spooky Kids’ tour by way of crappy budget airline, you get to the hotel to check in before the show. It’s not awful– it’s a pretty good motel, at least.

“I can’t wait til we can afford a tour bus,” Brian growls miserably, flopping down on one of the double beds. It shoots his lanky body up four feet off the bed as the overly-loaded springs catapult him, and you double over with laughter. Though he looks ready to murder, your laugh is infectious, and Brian starts to chuckle too.

“What the fuck is this?” He goes on, picking up a towel folded into a swan. He turns it around, and pretends to stick his dick into it, humping it as he waddles around the room.

“It’s a swan,” Jeordie smiles, face smushed into his own bed opposite yours, “I requested the towels be made into pretty swans for us.”

“Yeah?” Brian discards the towel in a heap. “ Did you also request little chocolates be left on our pillow every night, princess?”

“Dammit. I knew I forgot something.”

“Why did we let Jeordie book this?” you groan. “We all know I’m the responsible mom here.”

“I beg to differ,” Brian says, crawling over top of you and securing his stringbean limbs around you like a giant spider. “I’m more of a mom than you.” You giggle.

“Says the man who just pretended to fuck a towel swan.”

“What do you mean _pretended? _That slutty motherfucker’s got my jizz all over him, he was begging for it.” Brian grins, collapsing on top of you, and you shriek as he attacks you with kisses.

“Go put your makeup on, or you’ll be late getting on stage! Then nobody’ll ever know who the Spooky Kids are, and your career will never take off, all because you wanted to fuck your girlfriend. Again.”

“I’ll just tell the bouncers we were busy with hookers and blow, like proper rockstars,” Brian murmurs, sucking a hicky into your neck. “They’ll buy anything people like us feed em.”

“Hookers and blow?” Jeordie perks up, turning to you two.

“No,” you and your boyfriend both say at the same time.

Brian does his makeup with a little help from you, and Jeordie does as well. Brian’s lower face is covered in red lipstick, and he’s got his striped pink and black leggings on, with an unbuttoned vest and a cat in the hat top hat on his head, long hair brushed out and down to his waist. Jeordie’s got one of his green ragdoll dresses on, dreads done up in pigtails.

You three meet up with the other band members, all dressed and ready for the show as well, and you can immediately tell Brian is slipping into his stage persona when he tells the bouncer to go fuck himself on a butcher knife after being asked for ID. (You display the IDs you’ve got in your purse with many apologies after your boyfriend and his delinquent band waltz in like they own the place, despite the fact that they’re only the opening act.)

You stand in the front row of the make-do mosh pit of the dive bar, all big smiles and support. Despite what your family warns you, you have the utmost faith in Brian and his aspirations, and even though he’s got an absolute clusterfuck of personalities making up the band behind him, it’s a wild wonder of a musical act, and you just know the five of them are gonna go places someday.

“Good evening, all you crazy motherfuckers here in Miami Beach,” Brian points out to the crowd, “Let’s fuck shit up!” Their opener, Thrift, leads to Lucy In The Sky With Demons, then eventually to everyone’s apparent favourite, if the cheering is any guage– Lunchbox. You like that song too, bouncing around and screaming for it like one of the fans for the night. Brian keeps looking at you, and halfway through the song, he pulls you up on stage, obscenely groping his hands all over your breasts and sucking on them through your bra. You don’t mind– you make a show of moaning, squeezing them together, until you eventually slap him off, wag your finger, and slip back into the crowd, to the laughter and heckles from the crowd.

The show goes later than expected due to the enthusiasm of the crowd. After the show, everyone hung around the bar for a bit too, drinking a couple beers and doing a few lines of coke to mingle with any ego-stroking fans or labels that may have been scouting. 

The guys are still all riding the high of the adrenaline and drugs, but it’s 3 in the morning now, and since you three have not only one shared suitcase and one shared hotel room but one shared brain cell as well, you all decided it would be a good idea to book a 7 am flight home.

_Well. Blame it on it being the most affordable return time._

Once you get back to the room, some Judas Priest is cranked on the tinny room radio because “fuck the other hotel guests, I’m Marilyn Manson”, and the air guitars are broken out.

Brian inspects himself in the mirror, making Herculean poses and sticking his tongue out grotesquely, checking for warts or something. He pinches his nipples, scratching down his pale torso.

“I need more tattoos.”

“The ones you have now are rad,” you mention, kicking off your shoes, “But a few more would make you look even more badass.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, I already wouldn’t want to fuck with you. More tattoos? I’d be terrified.”

“I thought you were already terrified. You scream every time you see my cock.”

“That’s cause it’s so big…” You playfully lick your lips.

“Yeah? You wanna suck it?” Brian unzips his pants. “Wanna suck on it, baby?”

“I wanna get into bed, is what I want to do,” you yawn, peeling your top off and tossing it at Jeordie. Jeordie catches it and dutifully slingshots it into your great big shared suitcase. The neighboring hotel room tenants bang on the wall, mumbling something bitterly incoherent about turning the music down.

“I will kick down your door and skullfuck you, you entitled asshole!” Brian shouts back. The pounding stops abruptly, and you question how you haven’t been arrested yet.

“Seriously, I think it’s time for bed though,” Jeordie mumbles, crawling under his covers like an elderly cat. He jumps and frowns at something on the wall, something you’re glad you can’t see. 

“Fine, grandpa,” Brian rolls his eyes, and kills the volume on the rock station.

Five minutes later, you come out of the bathroom in one of Brian’s oversized Black Sabbath T-shirts, and run a hand through your hair, walking over to get into bed with Brian. He’s still scrubbing some of the eyeliner at the sink, and you beckon him. 

“Come here. I wanna cuddle.”

Brian grunts, and rubs his face once more, walking over to the door naked save for his boxer briefs to make doubly sure it’s locked.

“Only space for three psychos in this room,” he says, then does a barrel roll into bed, sweeping the covers over you both. The light is turned out, and Brian snuggles into you from behind, wrapping his arms around your middle.

“Bri,” you whisper. He hums into your hair.

“Yeah.”

You flip around to face him, your noses touching. He blinks, and you bite your lip, reaching under the covers. He bites back a moan, and you lean in to whisper. 

“I’m wet for you.”

Brian immediately looks over, and tosses a pillow at his best friend’s head. “Hey Jeordie, fuck off for the night.”

“What? No! I’m… trying to sleep…”

“The one night he decides not to get shitfaced and wander the streets,” Brian sighs.

“It’s no fun to do that yourself,” Jeordie mopes. “Actually, that’s not true. I’m just tired." 

"Fuck,” Brian mutters. You two let a few seconds go by.

“Is he asleep?” you whisper.

“I think so,” Brian mumbles back, then gasps as you cup him again through his underwear, reaching in with the other hand to wrap around his half-hard dick.

“(y/n), I gotta be in you,” he hisses, “Fast." 

"Just… shhh…” you giggle, and he bites his lower lip, rolling on top of you under the covers. His long raven hair curtains around you, and he reaches down to pull his dick out. You wiggle your hips excitedly, holding onto his forearms, and he takes a condom off the bedside table, rolling it on. He winces at the contact, the touch of his own hand to get the rubber on enough to make him harden even more. He moans, finally pushing into you.

“O-oh…” you try to keep your voice down to a squeak. “Bri… Bri, Bri, Brian, fuck… I love your cock…”

“Call me Marilyn,” he whispers.

“Hmm?”

“Call me Marilyn, I wanna hear you say it,” he grunts, rocking his hips in again. He holds your wrists together above your head as his thrusts get deeper.

“God, please… fuck me harder, Marilyn,” you breathe softly. His pace increases, both of you still attempting to be quiet so as not to wake your partner.

“Yeah… yeah, yeah,” he whispers, “Fuck yeah, baby. You’re so good for me. God, oh…”

Your eyes roll back as you smile in bliss, feeling your hands down your boyfriend’s back as he does his best to make you come not in record quantity tonight, but record time.

“That feel good?”

“Uh huh…”

“Your pussy feel good now? Nice and full?”

“Yeah, oh my god. Mar… Marilyn…” You feel your orgasm coming, so you hook your feet just above his ass and smirk, thinking of something you know will do the trick. It may be dumb, but it’s bound to work.

“It feels so fucking amazing getting fucked by the antichrist.”

He buries his face beside your shoulder as his hips stutter, and you can feel him finish inside the condom, thrusting his hips erratically and quickly as he milks it. Each thrust is taking you closer, and you two breathe and pant together as Brian holds you, making you come with wave after wave of a gorgeous climax.

“Ah, fuck that was good,” you breathe. Brian rolls off of you, depositing the condom and tucking it under his pillow. You wrinkle your nose. “Ew, man.”

“It’ll make housekeeping smile. She can sell it on eBay, make more than we earn in a tour. Or she can jam it up inside her and call us for child support.”

You giggle, and slap his chest lightly. He kisses you, and settles comfortably down beside you again, slipping his arms underneath yours.

“Do you think Jeordie’s still asleep?” you whisper, stifling a laugh. Suddenly, a clear voice rings out. 

“If you two loud assholes think I slept through that, then you must think I’m fucking deaf,” Jeordie blurts. “Assholes.”

Brian starts laughing, even as his friend keeps calling him an asshole. “You’re next,” Brian teases, and Jeordie sighs.

“Leave me alone and let me sleep.”

“Get the lube, (y/n), it’s Jeordie’s turn to be violated by the dirty man who broke into this hotel room, aka me.”

“Fuck off!”

“Fine, fuck you, more dick for (y/n),” Brian grins, and you smile, holding him to you.

You listen to the white noise of the deteriorating air conditioner. The rhythmic rising and falling of his chest tells you he’s passed out behind you, dreaming and adorable with his face pressed into the back of your neck.

You glance behind you. “Jeord, babe? Sorry for keeping you up. Really.”

Jeordie just smiles. “Honestly, I was listening the whole time to see what his secret is. How do you make someone come that much? It’s insane.”

You giggle into the pillow, and Brian wakes up long enough to croak: “Cause I am the God of Fuck.”


	9. Bat-Shaped Glasses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and another guest need a little salvation from the Halloween party you’re at.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Era: Eat Me Drink Me

It’s early October. This month is “your month” or as you’ve been reminded by everyone in your circle for the past 7 days. You love Halloween– something that inspired you to become a horror actress in the first place– but hearing “spooktober” every other sentence at this party was tiring, to say the least.

Halloween parties are usually fun, but this one is an industry party. You and the rest of the cast of Hell’s Most Wanted, a hot new horror franchise, had been invited.

Oh, well. At least you could stand here, look fabulous in the bat shaped glasses and silver bat scarf you had thrown on, enjoy the spiked vampire punch here in Hollywood tonight, and hope someone you’d like to meet walks by. Speaking of Hollywood and vampires…

“Depp!” you call. Your friend whirls around, tan brown hair wild, and spots you through narrowed eyes. He’s got a headband with light up devil horns on, and a bit of red glittery eyeshadow on.

“Ah! (y/n).” He frowns for a moment. “You look like you could use another drink, love.” You glance down at your glass, realizing it’s currently empty.

“Looks like you’re right.” You two walk over to the refreshments table, and you thank him as he refills your punch, getting a few bat shaped ice cubes in there for you.

“So. Who did your makeup?” you ask, raising a brow. 

“A very dear friend of mine… whom I seem to keep losing. Ah, there he is. When in doubt, look for the brooding shadow in the corner.”

Johnny grabs your hand, and leads you over to a man with black hair, black eyeshadow, and press on lower lashes. His lips are ruby red, skin pale, and he’s got a long, sweeping black cloak on with ornate black patterning. Cherry on top, his height is intimidating too.

“Nice vampire costume,” you smile. The guy looks over at you, unimpressed.

“I look like this everyday. But thanks.”

Johnny comes in behind his gothic friend, giving him a shoulder rub. “Manson, play nice. That’s (y/n) (y/l/n).”

“Never heard of her.”

“She’s a lovely girl.”

“Mm.”

“She is!”

“Mm.”

“Well,” you say awkwardly, pursing your lips, “Nice meeting you, good seeing you Johnny, I’m gonna–”

“Wait,” an eye roll from him, “I apologize.” The man steps forward, extending a pale hand. “I come off as an asshole until I… y'know, decide not to.”

You cautiously decide to shake his hand. His skin is warmer than you expected. “What made you change your mind?”

He smiles wryly. “I don’t know. Something about you.”

You nod slowly. “(y/n) (y/l/n).”

He shakes your hand. “Marilyn Manson.”

Johnny digs out a hand-rolled cigarette, then produces a bag of them. “Anyone for a smoke?”

“Blacken your lungs on your own, Depp,” Marilyn mutters, giving a sarcastic wave, “Unless the lady would like to join you, in which case… I’ll grin and bear it.”

You giggle. “I’m fine.”

“Right then. I’m off.” Johnny kisses Marilyn on the cheek, then you, then pops off through the crowd, disappearing to the terrace that overlooks West Hollywood.

“Man, these parties are bullshit,” Marilyn comments. “You don’t know whether to get fucked up or fall asleep.” You burst into laughter. He really cuts to the chase, but he’s not wrong.

“That about sums it up,” you nod.

“Then again, you could do both. But in what order?”

“We could just go find a bush and have a nap,” you shrug, “I don’t think anyone would miss us.” He finally cracks a small smile, walking with you through the crowd.

“That’s starting to sound like more and more of a good idea.”

You make it to the banquet table, and you pick up two strawberry (booberry, as they’re dubbed) cream puffs. He accepts his, and you eat yours, letting the strawberry jelly gush down your lip.

“Now who’s the vampire?” he smirks. You blush, wiping your face, and he motions with his head to the terrace. You both walk out, and he breathes a sigh of relief, sitting down in the garden. Black roses surround you, the venue obviously taking their star studded Halloween party seriously. It’s as if you’re caught up in a gothic novel… or the Addams Family.

“Here.” Marilyn places his cream puff on your knee. You shake your head.

“I got it for you.”

“I just took it from you so you wouldn’t look stupid carrying two around.” You give him a funny look. He elaborates. “I don’t eat at parties. I’m sick enough already trying to bring myself to talk to people.” He shakes his head. “It honestly feels like I’m back in high school sometimes.”

You place the cream puff beside you, blinking. “That’s exactly how I feel.”

He gives a sad smile. “Funny. They don’t tell you this, but you can’t ever escape the shit. It’s all classroom politics– blame the scapegoat, who’s the prettiest, who fucks the best, get dumped when you’re no longer socially useful, and every man for himself.”

“High school never really ends, I guess,” you say, and watch the crowd of costumed celebrities mingle and laugh. You feel his eyes on you. “I bet you think I was some kind of cheerleader or something in high school,” you say.

“No,” he says simply, folding his hands in his lap, “I don’t have any judgement about you whatsoever. I think it’s short-sighted to say that someone looks like they were the pretty one, or the nerd, or the jock. Anybody can become anybody.” He glares around. “Although I can tell you that you could find 80% of the guys at this party beating me up for my lunch money.”

You look around as well. “I’ve found that Hollywood, for me, is like all the artsy kids joined up and created a club.”

“That’s true,” Marilyn muses, “It’s like all the weird kids were given agents, fancy cars and drugs, and told to go play. I guess it depends on your crowd, though. I know people from all over the social map, but it takes a lot to be my friend.” He cocks his head. “Johnny did a good job of snaking his way in with a few snarky comments.” You look around for Johnny, though he’s probably sauntered off somewhere private. He likes parties for the free alcohol, and nothing else really. 

“What were you like in high school, anyway?” you ask softly, sipping your drink. Marilyn crosses his legs, placing his painted fingernails over his knee.

“I was the kid no one wanted to be seen with. No matter what _you _were, you wouldn’t have either. Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t have tried to sleep with you, though.” He smirks. You shrug.

“Maybe you would’ve been successful.”

“I had a mullet.”

“Yikes. Nevermind.”

A real laugh comes out of him, and he ducks his head, tucking his black hair behind his ear. You think it’s fascinating how shy he is… an international rock star like him. But, just as Marilyn said, proper judgement is impossible in situations such as these.

“What was your prom night like?” you ask.

“My prom night?”

“Mhmm." 

"Boring. I went out with the girl, jerked off when she wouldn’t put out.” He shrugs. “Didn’t help that the suit was thick, it kept rubbing against my dick and gave me a hard on. Of course, at that age, the wind could blow and I’d get an erection. She looked at my crotch, saw that I had a boner, hit me with her purse and called me a pervert. I knew the relationship was over when I pointed out that she was the one looking at my crotch in the first place.” You giggle, and he smiles, shaking his head. “People get uncomfortable when you point out their hypocrisy.” He rolls his palms on his knees, taking a deep breath of fresh air. “Okay. What was your prom night like?”

“I was drunk, I don’t remember." 

He looks at you incredulously for a second, obviously not expecting that answer. "Alright, enough with this high school reunion shit,” he says. “We’re both here now, at a party in Hollywood, you’re talking to Public Enemy Number 1 and I’m talking to Hell’s Most Wanted, so I guess we both did something right.”

You stand up. “_A-ha! _So you _do _know who I am!”

Honest to god, you see him blush. “Yeah. A lot of people do.”

“You were faking!”

“That’s what I do,” he smiles sarcastically, “I’m as fake as a wedding cake.”

You step closer to him. “Somehow, I don’t think that’s true.”

You two walk across the terrace. The sound of the traffic in the distance is almost enough to overpower the beginning of Enter Sandman, which is playing inside. “This is the only song I like by Metallica,” you tell him. He looks back into the party.

“It’s okay. I’ve been listening to Moon Over Bourbon Street by Sting for the past month, to get over the break up to end all break ups.”

“Oh yeah.” You recall seeing something about Marilyn Manson and divorce in the tabloids recently. “Dita, right?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, looking down. He obviously doesn’t want to talk about it, and you don’t press. “Anyway, I wish they’d play Bourbon Street here. Those words make me feel eternal, and it’s not like it would be out of place at a Halloween party." 

"I swear, you must be a real vampire,” you tease.

He gives that shy laugh. “I’m a vampire in every sense of being one, without actually being one. I go out at night, sleep half the day away. I’m pale, I like blood.” He purses his lips. “I just don’t like the taste of it.”

“No? What do you drink, then?”

“Absinthe.”

Before he can say anything else, you snake through the crowd over to the bar, ordering two Death In The Afternoons, which is a delicious mixture of champagne and Marilyn’s poison of choice. You hand him one, and he accepts, sipping it.

“Mm. You trying to get me drunk?” he asks.

“Maybe.”

“This is probably the most sober anyone’s seen me for weeks,” he confides. “I don’t know if you’d like me when I’m drunk. Not many people do.”

You clink your glass against his. “Same goes for me, Manson.”

He looks at you for a long time, until you start to fidget a little. He finally blinks those long eyelashes, tongue coming out to swipe his painted red lips.

“You’re very pretty.”

You blush hard. “One sip is all it took to get that out of you?”

“I won’t let the absinthe take credit for another mistake I make,” he smiles, eyes dark and honest, “I’ve been thinking that since you first called me a vampire.”

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” you whisper, walking back into a dark corner, grinning. He follows, eyes a black pit you want to get lost in.

“No, I get it. Dark, mysterious.”

“Charming.”

“Brooding.”

“Sexy,” you moan, and he downs the rest of his drink, dropping it on someone’s table. 

“Alright. The absinthe might be in control from here on out, but fuck it.” He cups your cheeks, and presses you into that corner, shadows enveloping your two rocking bodies as those blood red lips slip down to touch yours.

“Please,” you moan, and he doesn’t quite know what you’re asking, but he takes a leap of faith, sliding his hands beneath your skirt and bunching it up. His hands move beneath the waistband of your lace panties, and he uses one hand to squeeze your ass, the other using slender fingers to masterfully circle your clit. _Well, that was fucking fast._

You breathe heavily into his shoulder, and he draws back a little, eyes searching yours for any little hint as to what’s working and what’s not. When your eyes roll back and you bite your lip, he continues with the rubbing, rocking his hips forward as well.

Your hands dip into the opening of his cloak, and find his belt buckle, unlatching it slowly, each rock of the hips and grind of his hand against you slow, dirty, deliberate.

“I want you to make me cum on your fingers,” you whisper.

“Are you sure that’s what you want?” he whispers back, lips moving down to nibble at the line of your jaw.

“Yes…”

“Ask again.”

“Marilyn, please.”

You kiss him again, the two of you making out as your fingers wrap around his semi-hard cock. He hisses slightly at the sensation of your cold hand around him, but a few seconds tick by, and your skin warms up to his, dragging beautifully up and down his hardness.

“You keep doin’ that, I’m gonna get your hand real messy,” he whispers.

“Get it all over me,” you growl, the dirtiness of your words urging you on, “I wanna feel it when we cum together.”

“Fuck,” he groans, and dips his fingers into you. You marvel at his talent– in two strokes of his fingers, he’s found your g-spot, and you’re arching into him, breasts pressed against his chest. 

More than a few thoughts are whirling through your head, but you vaguely tell yourself this is just a rebound for him. He was imagining his ex-wife, that’s all, and–

“(y/n)?” he gasps out, and you’re surprised he’s moaning your name.

“Yeah?”

“C-can I… tell you a secret?”

“Mhmm…”

“After the first episode of Hell’s Most Wanted… I had to jack off.”

You almost laugh, and it comes out as a groan. You imagine Marilyn jacking off, thinking of you… him even having a tiny crush on you. 

“God, that’s so hot,” you pant, jerking him faster. He tries to whisper your name again, but it gets garbled as he gasps and cums in your hand. This only forces his fingers deeper, and you grab onto his hair and bite his bottom lip as you cum hard too, riding his fingers in the dark corner of the room.

“Ow,” he smiles, pulling away and dabbing at the blood on his lip from the bite. You grin, licking it up with a swipe of your tongue.

“See? I could be your vampire." 

"Sweetheart. If I was your vampire, we’d have each other til the sun.”

“You’re poetic.”

“And you’re still pretty.”

“Glad I haven’t lost my appeal after all that,” you snort, as the two of you glance around sheepishly. You find napkins to clean up with, and pass him one.

“Nah,” he says, taking your other hand, “I think I’ve warmed up to the idea of you. At least while the moon is still up." 

You take a glance outside, and see a crescent moon trying its best to shine on all the ghosts and ghouls of Hollywood gathered at this party. It’s a valiant effort on its part, and it brings the spooky spirit of the evening back.

"Looks like we have a few more hours,” 

“Just don’t break my heart,” he warns.

Against all better judgement, you question him. “What happens if I do?” He lifts a finger up to flick the plastic wings of the novelty Halloween sunglasses. 

“Then I’ll break your bat-shaped glasses.” 

You take his arm, and you two outsiders re-enter the festive crowd, anonymous but no longer alone.


	10. The Lord's Work (Pope x Reader)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your lover and protector, dangerous in his own right, deals with matters after a run in at a local bar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Movie: Let Me Make You A Martyr

You walk up to the bar, and order a drink.

“How much?” you ask absently, taking a quick look to your left and right.

“For you, darling? Shit. It’s on the house,” the bartender gives you a wide smile, and you wink at him in thanks, grabbing your rum and coke and heading to find a booth.

“You here with someone, sugar tits?”

It’s a drawling voice behind you, but not a pleasant one. It’s rough, but not in the way you like. You turn slowly, taking the man in. He’s twice your size, large, round, red-faced, and probably three drinks down the hole.

“Yeah,” you lie, narrowing your eyes. “Why’s it your business?”

“Well, I was thinkin’… sweet little thing like you, might need a good pounding tonight. I’m on the menu, babygirl.” You flinch. _There’s only one man who can call you babygirl, and he hadn’t been able to come tonight._

Pope knows you’re loyal—you’d never, ever betray him, and vice versa. Your relationship is built on trust, every level of it, so when either one of you goes out, enticement is guaranteed not to work.

You wish he didn’t have to deal with business tonight—some idiot motherfucker could wait til tomorrow to die, right? But that’s not how Pope operates. He’s hired, he gets the job done, and that’s that. No fucking around.

“I’ve got a good pounding waiting for me at home,” you shoot him the finger back, turning to go.

“I bet you’re a slut, honey. You can take two poundings in one night. Maybe more. I’ve got someone to meet in about half an hour, but I’ve always got time for a nice quickie.” You keep walking, but finally feel the man’s hand on your shoulder. “Woah, woah, what’s your hurry, little girl?” the guy smirks. “Just wanna play.”

You clench your jaw, thinking of your boyfriend and what he’d do if he was here right now. “You don’t wanna do this.”

“Nah,” he feels a hand down to your ass, “I really think I do.”

He pulls you in, gets his big arms around you, and tries to force you in for a kiss. You knee him in the crotch, and swiftly punch him in the face, splashing your drink in his face to make the split burn.

“FUCK!” he shouts, grabbing blindly for you, and as he’s struggling, you reach into his back pocket, pulling his wallet and snatching his ID.

Hurrying out of the club, you hail a cab, and slip your sunglasses on. Why do you even bother going out without Pope? It always turns into a shit show like this.

You lament the fact that your night is over so soon. You could find another bar, but at this point, you’re not in the mood anymore. The taxi pulls up to the doorstep of the motel Pope said he’d be in, waiting for his hit.

You knock three times, pausing before the third, and Pope opens it; it’s your secret knock. He immediately pulls you into a hug when you fall into his chest. A little confused, the much taller, bulkier man draws back just enough to rest his chin on your head.

“What’s the matter with my babygirl, hm? Thought you were out tonight… paintin’ the town.”

You revel in the soothing depth of his gravelly voice, letting it flow over you. “Baby, something happened.”

He pauses, resting his lips beside your ear. He presses three soft kisses to your cheekbone, and whispers: “I know. I can smell his sweat on you.”

You shiver, and pull out the man’s ID from your back pocket, showing Pope. His gaze trains on it, over the name _Edward Maddle _beside the creepy photograph. The murderous look in his own dark eyes is as horrifying as ever, but you’d be lying if you said it didn’t make you wet. 

You clutch his arm, and Pope keeps you there, grabbing his gun. “The hit can wait. I’ve got a fuckin’ lowlife to rid the Earth of, it seems.”

Just then, the doorknob rattles, and five off-kelter bangs sound on the door. Pope lifts his chin in curiosity, and gestures to the bathroom. You dart off to wait, not bothering to tell him to be careful—you know whoever’s at that door has no chance in hell.

Watching through the crack, you see him open it. It’s the man from the bar. Pope, being quicker than most on the uptake, notices this almost immediately.

“Edward Maddle.”

“Yeah. Uh, you Glass?” The guy’s gaze shifts around. _So, he was a criminal too. Real swell guy._

“I’m a mutual friend.”

The man, Edward, frowns, reaching behind him. “I didn’t come to speak with no fucking mutual friend, assface, I came to speak with—”

Pope takes out his own gun, locked and loaded, and points it at Edward. “Put that down.” 

The guy is smarter than you thought. He puts his weapon down, and his hands raise. “Look, I thought we had some kinda business deal here… why’d you show up, ‘stead of him?!”

“Not my job to ask questions.” Pope rests his chin on tented fingers. “Not your job either, at this point. To be honest with you, I have no clue in hell why you’re here, or what this bullshit business deal is about. I have work to do, and I plan to follow through with it.” 

Edward reaches to leave, and Pope’s finger dances on the trigger. “You open that door, you’ll be one billion pieces of flesh splattered on my motel room wall.” He considers this with a tilt of his head. “Not that you won’t be anyway.”

You come sauntering out from the bathroom, and Edward does a double take. He looks visibly pained. “Aw, shit.”

“I told you, you didn’t want to do that,” you smirk, and sit on Pope’s knee as he starts to rub up your back.

“You met (y/n) at the bar, is that right?” The gun raises when no answer is given. “Is that fuckin’ right?”

“Yes,” Edward growls.

“One could even say, you… took a liking to her,” Pope goes on, rubbing up your arm now.

“Well, who wouldn’t?” Edward had the nerve to retort. Pope stares for a very long time.

“Who wouldn’t? Hm. God damn good question you’ve got there. Someone who wants to keep their head on their shoulders, I’d say.”

Silence. Not a word out of Edward this time.

“Stand for daddy,” Pope murmurs to you, and you do as he asks.

“Did you wanna do this to her, Mr. Maddle?” Pope asks softly, pattering his fingers up your inner thighs. You suck in a breath, as his fingers start to dance between your legs. “This, right?” He starts dragging his fingers against your pussy through your shorts, back and forth, back and forth. It takes everything in you not to cry out and grind down, but you keep calm for the demonstration.

“Look,” the guy says, voice trembling ever so slightly, “I never knew… she just looked like some slut!”

“Yeah. She’s a slut,” Pope says, grip tightening on the back of your neck, “But she’s _my_ slut. Always will be.” You can’t help it—you let out a high moan as he rubs you just right, falling back to sit on his thigh. Pope seems to enjoy this, resting his chin in the nape of your neck.

“Listen to the kitty purr,” he rasps, rubbing you harder, keeping you closer, “This is how you make a kitty feel real good.”

“Oh,” you sigh, leaning back into him. All the while the man watches, horrified, at gunpoint. “Oh god,” you whisper, arching your breasts up, “Fuck me, baby.”

Edward looks down, but the sound of Pope cocking his pistol lifts his gaze right back up. “Watch this shit, you fucking pig,” Pope growls, “Watch and see what you could get if you were me.”

You moan again, feeling your pussy react. You’re gonna come, _you’re gonna come—_

Pope reaches into your shorts, down your panties, and curls two of his fingers inside you, as deep as they’ll go. “Now ride my thigh, little pony,” he whispers, nipping at your ear, “Ride it til you can’t ride no more.”

You grind down against his clothed leg, gasping as your orgasm starts to build.

“Tell me ‘bout it,” he mumbles, brushing your hair away from your ear and gripping you around the back of the neck like a marionette.

“S-so good,” you respond, “So good, I’m—I want your cock so bad!”

“Jesus,” Edward mutters, and you remember he’s even there, watching.

“Jesus ain’t in the room right now,” Pope grins, kissing down your face to your neck, “Not a chance in hell he’s making an appearance after I do… this.”

_“Ahhh!”_

Whatever he’s done, you barely register—all you feel is blinding pleasure, and you ride him harder, faster, oh fuck yes, yes—

“Baby, baby,” you breathe, and he clutches your back to his chest as he fingers you through an explosive, slow, burning orgasm. Pope’s eyes close, and he breathes deeply into your hair, rocking you on his lap. 

Your eyes open lazily, and a smile sprawls across your face as you reach your arms back behind Pope’s head. You can feel the bulge of his erection, grinding against the cleft of your ass every time you move. He strokes your upper thighs softly, sending more pleasant shivers through your sated body.

“How’d that make you feel, baby girl?”

“Mmmgood.”

“Good to hear. See, Maddle—I bet you also wanted to do this.” Suddenly, Pope jerks you off of him, bends you over his knee, and smacks you hard on the ass. “Wanted to see that sweet ass jiggle. She sure loves getting punished. Don’t you, my good little whore?”

“Mhmm,” you groan, arching your back, “Please sir, may I have another?”

“I appreciate your manners, but kitten—we both know they won’t get you shit with daddy,” Pope says, and spanks you even harder this time. You cry out, fingers tightening onto his leg as your breasts rub together.

Edward is watching, enraptured, and Pope looks up lazily, eyes half-lidded. “Think she’s had enough?” 

“I—I couldn’t, uh—” The pistol raises. “Fuck! I think so!”

You pout, and Pope sighs, looking down at you. “Hear that, babygirl? This man seems to feel that you’ve got all the punishment you deserve.” He lets you off of his lap. “In all seriousness… you don’t deserve punishment for nothing. Edward here, well—he’s a different story. But,” Pope looks up, giving a dark smile, “We’ll get to his dead ass in a minute.”

“Y-you’re gonna k-kill me, aren’t you?!”

Mildly annoyed, Pope looks up at Edward again. “I don’t believe I said it was question time.” He looks at you, then to his crotch. You immediately know what to do, crawling forward and unzipping him. You free him from his boxers, and absolutely revel in the noise he makes, the low groan of approval as you lick him tip to base.

“That’s how it’s fucking done,” he breathes, head tilting back, and you kitten lick around the vein down the side of his impressive length. After a second, you feel his fingers thread into your hair, and wait for the oncoming thrash of pain you’ll feel.

Pope jerks your head down, and moves your mouth rapidly up and down his wet cock as he thrusts in. He knows your safe word. You know your safe word. Edward doesn’t, but fuck that guy.

“This what you thought you’d get tonight, pig?” Pope asks calmly, barely even breaking a sweat as he fucks your mouth rough. “You thought you’d get my girl’s mouth wrapped around your dick, tits bouncing in your face?” He nods slowly as Edward stands, petrified, by the door. “It’s a sweet fantasy. Interestingly enough, it’s your last.”

“Mister, fucking hell, I just—”

_BANG. BANG. BANG. BANG. **BANG**._

Pope pulls you off his dick gently, standing and taking a shotgun out from under the bed. Careful to aim correctly, he uses the butt of it to then whack, whack, _whack_, bashing Edwards skull all over the floor. With a swift kick to his ribs, he nearly breaks the dead man in half, then drops the weapon. He doesn’t bother to wipe the specks of blood off his face, as he turns back to you.

You’re kneeling, waiting eagerly, so he gives you what you want. He stands overtop of you, legs spread, jerking off with slow, deliberate strokes, cock positioned just over the tip of your waiting tongue.

“Take it,” he whispers, and comes in thick ropes over your tongue and across your mouth. His whole body shudders with the force of his orgasm, and you take all of it as his breathing speeds up. When he’s done, he watches you keenly as you lap him up, tuck him back, and stand. He gives you a stroke against the chin. “Picture perfect.”

You toss the ID card into the pool of blood that was once the man who tried to force himself on you. “We grabbing the pay… then heading home tonight?” You loop your arms around your hit-man’s middle. He kisses your forehead, and takes out a Virginia Slim to light between his bloody fingers.

“Mmm. Daddy’s work here is all done.”


	11. Out On Bad Behavior (Ron Tully x Reader)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tully’s out on parole, and he hasn’t seen you in months. Things are gonna get rough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show: Sons of Anarchy

“You got a girl, Teller?”

Tully’s voice is deep, calm, and his dark eyes speak volumes. Jax studies him.

“I got _girls_.”

Instead of taking the plural response personally, Tully just smirks, sitting back in his seat. “The only reason a guy don’t have a main girl, is if she don’t fuck so good. You stick with the ones that fuck good and fuck often, you’re set for life. Not only do you get great pussy when you need it, you’ve got a girl who’ll stick with you through thick and thin, cause she knows she’ll never get better dick. And it’s one in a million if she’s not a fuckin’ psycho bitch.”

Jax raises his eyebrows. “I’ll try to remember that.” Tully taps his head. The blonde biker folds his arms. “Alright. You got a girl on the outside, I’m assuming.”

“Mmm. My girl is the real deal, man. Ride or die. And the sex?” He leans back, grinning.

“That good?” Jax indulges, unable to suppress his own boyish smile.

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” Tully nods, biting his lip. “She’s takin’ care of my dogs while I’m gone. My real dogs…. can’t wait to get out and see her again.”

Jax lowers his voice, glancing around in that conspiratorial manner that Tully wishes he’d stop doing. “You may just get your wish soon, man. I overheard some guards talking about you. Said you’d be out within the month on some parole deal they’re all pissed about." 

Tully stares. "Well, look at that. I guess behaving myself gets me somewhere in life.”

You haven’t seen him in months, and it’s like a freight train hitting you. Pent up feelings of loss, love, and affection bubble to the surface as you see him walking toward you with that same swagger, escorted by two cops who don’t even know who they’re fucking with. You wait patiently, and the strongest feeling of all takes over.

“Tully,” you whisper, and he locks his pinky finger in yours.

“Baby girl.”

Unable to hold back, he loops his arms around you, and squeezes you against him in a deep kiss he’s been waiting for for months. You kiss back eagerly, moaning into his lips as his hand travels between your legs. When he finally lets you go, he side-eyes the two cops who escorted him out. 

“Got your kicks for the day, boys?” They shift uncomfortably, and Ron chuckles as you latch onto his arm like his pretty little plaything. 

Once he gets you home, it’s like a ticking bomb has been set off. He wants you and you want him, but there’s a dance involved. You want to ask him about jail… but not now. Later. All that shit can wait.

Tully speaks.

“Missed you.”

“Likewise.”

He takes a good look at you, lust in his eyes rising. You inch your top up, as if trying to decide whether or not to take it off. “You’re my pretty little kitty, isn’t that right?”

“Yeah…" 

"With that sweet little pussy,” he groans, biting his bottom lip. “That pussy still nice and wet for me?”

“Mhmm.”

“Bring your gorgeous little self over here, show daddy.”

You sway your hips as you approach him. He watches you, erection obvious in his tented slacks. He looks so good sitting there, dominance clear in his eyes. There’s no question who’s in control here.

“Now, I’m gonna cum inside you faster than usual,” he murmurs, brushing his fingers against your thighs, “I haven’t been 8 inches deep in you for 7 months. That’s enough to drive me insane, baby. Of course, I made do,” he smirks, “Man’s got needs. But it was never the same.”

You moan, imagining what Tully must have looked like fucking someone else as you crawl into his lap. His chin lifts, and he lets you settle yourself there, his clothed erection sliding nicely to fit between your parted thighs. You think of him getting what he needs in prison… you imagine he’d grunt, taking them for all they’re worth, showing them who’s boss, who their daddy is.

“Tell me about it?”

“Mmm,” he hums, stroking the hair out of your face, “You wanna know about the bitch I fucked in jail?”

“Mhmm.”

“Hearing about it’ll get you nice and wet down below, baby?”

“Yeah…”

“Well. He had a pretty little hole… just like you.” He leans in, so his lips are beside your ear, hot breath in your hair and stubble scratching your cheek. “I pretended that pretty little ass was you, begging for my cock like I knew a fucking little whore like you would.”

“Oh,” your breath hitches as you grind down into his lap, and Tully convulses a little in a full body shudder, obviously not used to the physical stimulant of a real girl’s touch again.

“-But oh, how I missed you. How I missed… this.” He slips two fingers past your panties and into your tight heat, curving them to make an obscene wet noise. “Look at how wet she is for her daddy,” he cooes in that buried, genteel southern edge, “All for me. All thinkin’ about me… fucking you to high heaven on this cock.”

“Oh god, Tully,” you gasp, grinding.

“You ever had a cock bigger’n this?”

“Never…”

“Tell me, who do you belong to?” he growls.

“You.”

“Did you go slutting around town while I was incarcerated?”

“N-no, I swear!”

“Nah, you wouldn’t give it out for free. You’re just too goddamn good for that,” he nips your earlobe, and uses his thumb to rub your clit. “Did you dream about this?”

“Uh huh.”

“Every night, I dreamed about all the shit you do to me. Dreamed about that cunt. The blow jobs you give me whenever you’re feeling nice and slutty. Woke up hard every morning, and all the guys got a nice wake-up call when I started to fuck my fist and call your name as loud as I fuckin’ could.” He chuckles, stroking your stomach. “It was like a community alarm clock of sorts.” Your thighs start to tremble, thinking of how he must have looked jerking his cock for you, thinking of fucking you deep with it. His eyes fall to your breasts, and you can tell by the ravenous look in his eyes he wants to squeeze them, touch them, suck on them. But he restrains himself, keeping his hands firmly planted on your hips, in control as always.

“That’s so hot, daddy.”

“Mm? What’s hot, baby girl? Tell daddy. Wanna hear it.”

“Thinking of you…” you gasp, pussy clenching as he strokes you just right, “…touching yourself, thinking of me. Getting cum all over your chest calling my name.”

He hums again, the deep sound sending shivers down you. God, you want him so fucking bad.

“Would’ve been nice to have you there, to lick it all up,” he murmurs, dark eyes searching you, “Hm? My little cumslut’d like that, wouldn’t she? Tasting daddy’s cum, cleaning him up good?”

“Oh… Jesus, yes.”

“Go ahead, baby. Do what you been waitin’ to do since you saw me again. Hold onto daddy and cum as hard as you need to, like the good little whore you are.”

He knows how names like that turn you on. You picture what he described, how he looked walking toward you, cuffed then uncuffed in that white wifebeater. That look he had in his eyes, like a wolf, like he wanted to absolutely devour you. With two more pumps of his fingers, you cum, coating them. He pulls his fingers out, and has you lick them for him.

“That’s it. _Beautiful_.” He watches you breathe heavily, head cocked, and lets you suck on his fingers for a bit longer. Then he pulls them past your lips with a pop. “I think it’s my turn now.”

“You gonna fuck me, daddy?” you moan, enticing him with your breasts.

“Yeah,” he drawls, unzipping his pants, “I think so.” He takes it out, giving your ass a nice spank before parting you and lining himself up. When he pushes in, you think you’ve never felt something so fucking good. It’s been too long since you’ve had him. It’s been far too long.

His head rolls back as he admires how your ass moves up and down against him, as he bounces you on his cock.

“Goddamn. You were made for this, sweetie,” he moans, tugging your hair back and closing his fingers around your neck. The labored breaths ripping from him are evidence he’s working hard for it, and you give right back, working your ass down. He chokes you a little harder, and it all comes rushing up on you.

“Fuck, I’m gonna–” you wheeze, and his low, growled out grunts increase as he pounds faster. “Ahhh, god,” you whine, and cum hard on his cock again. Feeling you coat him with wetness, he thrusts two, three more times, and with a grunt of your name, he cums as well, deep inside you. 

“That’s the girl I missed,” he muses, chest rising and falling. Sweat dots his forehead and arms, but you don’t care. You wrap yourself up in his big arms, and cuddle against his tattooed chest, feeling the pudge of his stomach rising and falling gently. He holds you there, rocking, kissing the top of your head.

“Not goin’ anywhere now, baby girl. That’s a fact you can count on.”


	12. Let Me Hear You (Ron Tully x Reader)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tully phones you for the monthly call he pays for while incarcerated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Show: Sons of Anarchy

Tully is lead into the solitary room, cuffed. He sits down at the wall, where the phone is. It’s time for his monthly call to you, a date to look forward to in this inconvenient hellhole.

“500 and you get the fuck out,” he drawls to the guard. The guard just grins.

“I ain’t crooked like them others. Fuck your 500. I supervise.”

Tully lets a small smirk develop. “Then I sure hope you like voyeurism.”

Jax watches through the small window as he’s lead by too.

“Interesting guy,” the guard mutters.

“What does he do in there?” Jax asks the guard.

“Whatever he wants. He paid for it. I’m paid big bucks to keep my mouth shut too. He could be painting the walls with his own paper cuts, for all I care. I get 600 bucks a call.”

Jax glances back over his shoulder, wondering just what the fuck Tully paid that much to do once a month. Probably call his crew, get updates or some shit.

Inside the room, Tully dials your number, and leans back against the wall.

At home, you head from the walk in closet over to your bed, shedding your clothes. You had had a good sleep the night before, but the heartache was bad tonight. Nights were always lonely without your Tully in your bed. You missed being able to hold him at night, and being held by him. You missed being able to roll over in the morning and climb on him, getting fucked and starting your day right. You missed hearing his morning voice in your ear, softly waking you up. Your cell starts ringing, and it’s a number you don’t recognize.

You pick up after a few rings, and Tully lifts his chin. “Baby.”

“Hey,” you smile excitedly into the phone, and lay back on your bed. “I was just thinking of you.”

“Mm? What about?" 

"How much I miss your hands on me.” 

Tully smirks. “What a coincidence.” 

“They let you call?”

“You know how it is. Prison politics. I got the cash, they got the time.”

You smile. “It’s nice to hear your voice.”

Tully looks at the time, and thinks back to when you two typically got into bed together. “Heading to bed, angel mine?”

“Mhmm. I was gonna get a shower first.”

“Hold that thought. You got anything on?”

You bite your lip. “Not a thing, daddy. I just finished stripping down, and now I’m lying naked on the bed.”

Tully sits forward smugly, smirking. “I like the sound of that. Why don’t you make daddy real happy, tell him what you wanna do right now?”

“Mmmm…. I’m on my tummy… moving my hips slowly, feeling how nice the mattress is against my sweet spot…”

“Mm, keep rolling those hips, baby. Don’t lay a finger on that sweet spot, baby, daddy’s got that for you.”

You sigh softly into the phone, and Tully starts to palm himself with the heel of his hand. Out of the corner of his eye, the guard watches, hesitant. On one hand, he doesn’t give a fuck. On the other, Tully’s on camera, and he’s going to get shit for letting him do this. Tully notices the guy’s trepidation.

“Oh, the cameras? They ain’t on, brother. They’re paid off good, just like you would be if you took a fucking hint.”

The guard decides this time to take him up on it, and heads out after a hefty promise of 1k.

“For that price, add a little dope in there for my Puerto Rican boy, and I might not bash your skull in when you go to sleep,” Tully says to the guard, and waits until the door is locked again to continue his chat with you.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I didn’t mean to neglect my girl.”

“It’s okay daddy,” you mumble, “I can make my own fun while you take care of things.”

“That’s my girl. What are you doin’ now?”

“I’m nice and wet. Waiting for you to tell me what to do.”

“Mm. Good. I want you to slip one of your pretty little fingers into yourself. Just one.”

“Mmm, daddy…”

“That’s right. Tell me how wet you are, sweetheart.” Tully reaches into his standard issue prison slacks, and pulls his cock out. He’s already hard and heavy in his hand– he’s always weak for your moans, especially with so much time lapsing between when he can hear them.

“So wet,” you moan, splaying out on the bed, “I need your cock to make me feel better. I’m so fucking horny.”

“Shh, shh, sweet thing. You know you’ll get daddy’s cock. Of course you will, daddy wouldn’t deny you that. But you’re gonna have to do something for me first. Hm? Kay, baby girl?”

“Uh huh,” you sigh, dipping your finger in and out, just barely, your pussy clenching around nothing. “Tell me what to do, daddy, I’ll do it.” God, his voice alone makes you wanna cum.

“I need you to moan for me. Moan for me good, baby, let me hear what my girl sounds like when she’s feeling slutty.”

“Mmm,” you sigh, then progress to opening your mouth as your finger goes a little deeper. “Ahh…. oh… oh god yeah… mmmm… I want you so fucking bad.”

Tully starts a slow stroking on his cock, using spit and pre as lube as he’s used to doing in his bed. He lets out a small, involuntary grunt.

“Are you touching your cock for me, daddy?” you ask innocently, and Tully hums, giving himself a slow stroke from base to tip, thumbing over the head and biting his lip.

“Yes I am. Can you hear it?” He moves the phone down so you can hear the rythmic jostling of his wrist hitting his pelvis, his hand ruffling his slacks. Your pussy clenches again, heat rolling through you like waves with every grunt you hear, wishing you could add another finger, or at least use a dildo. Maybe if you ask…

“Can I use a toy on myself?” you moan, rocking your hips down hard into the mattress, “I just feel sooo empty… I need to be filled by you.”

“No toys today, sweetheart. Not today. I wanna see how hard I can make you cum just listening.”

“Mfff,” you mumble, sticking your face in the pillow. Tully smirks.

“Let me see your eyes, baby.”

“Mmm, I’m looking at you, daddy. Oh god–”

“That pussy feels so nice,” Tully groans, slowing his swiftly building hand movements down to keep himself at bay. He couldn’t cum before you. He just wished he had prepared a little this morning to ensure he would last longer, but he’s a shot caller by occupation– he had more self control then most of the posers in here with him.

“Can I please add another finger, daddy?”

“Go ahead, sweetheart. Gonna spoil you real good.”

Your moans get breathy in pitch, and Tully feels a warmth start to spread. He lets his cock rest against his thigh, waiting for you.

“Daddy, I’m… I’m so close,” you whine, “Fuck me harder.”

“I’m fuckin you, nice and deep, that’s right… use me, use my cock, babygirl.”

“Choke me, please, please sir,” you groan, your hips lifting off the bed as you finger yourself as deep as you can.

“My hands are wrapping around your neck, baby.” Tully starts to stroke his cock again. “Say the word if it gets too tight…”

“Ohgod!”

“Mmmm, so good for me. So good for me, sweetheart. Cum when you need to. Cum on daddy’s big cock.”

“I’m–” you gasp. Tully swears under his breath.

“So hard. All for you.”

In a wave, you cum hard, breathing Tully’s name like a prayer.

With a low grunt, Tully cums into his fist. “(y/n)…”

You come down off your high, circling your clit just enough to get every last shock out of your climax.

“Did you cum, daddy?”

“I sure did, baby. I came damn hard for my girl.”

You pout, wiggling your hips. “I wish I could lick it all up and wrap my arms and legs around you, like my big mean teddy bear.”

Tully smirks. “This big mean teddy bear’s gotta do his time. Then he’ll get out and come give you all the cuddles you want, sweet thing. Mmkay?”

“Okay,” you smile, “I miss you, sexy.”

“I miss hearing that voice in person, baby,” Tully sighs, wiping his hands with a roll of cheap paper towel. “I love you more than the world. But have faith. We’ll see each other soon.”

You giggle. “What kinda faith do you have?”

He chuckles as well, fingers tracing the upside down cross he has tattooed on his finger. “Touché.”

Hanging up the phone, he knocks three times on the door, and the guard comes back in to escort him to his cell.

“Have fun?” The guard asks, tone patronizing. Tully is unbothered as ever.

“More fun than you have in a year.” The guard’s jaw clenches, and Tully lets the cuffs back on, smirking the whole way back to his cell with memories of your moans to keep him until next month.

You let out a sigh back in your bedroom, looking at the empty side of the California King bed where your boyfriend belongs. But that’s just the life. You knew it going in– it’s okay. Tully’s worth the wait. He protects you, and you’ve got protection from his boys even when he’s not around to look after you himself. You settle in, and close your eyes, thinking of him calling you his princess and reading you poetry as you drift off.


	13. Hair and Bone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The new album your boyfriend is recording takes its toll on not only him, but you too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Era: Antichrist Superstar.
> 
> WARNING: This chapter/fic contains not-so-recreational drug use and brief thoughts of self harm. 
> 
> It can be read as a sequel to Motel Hell, or as a standalone.

It was the conversation that needed to happen.

It was less of a conversation, really, and more of a tension release, the pop in the balloon you had known was coming. You just wish it had happened at a more convenient time– not 3 in the morning.

You don’t care if your boyfriend gets home at 6 pm or 6 am. You’re used to his schedule being irregular. It was different when he was just starting out– he’d record music with the guys in the closet or something, or in Jeordie’s bathroom, since it had good acoustics. Now after the success of his first studio album, the pressure for the next one is greater, and he’s putting a lot more work into it. He’s in the studio, and you trust him. Tonight, he had ambled in at 2:45 in the morning, and you had been sleeping.

Hearing a faint crash and a string of ‘fuck’s, you open your eyes, yawn, and get out of bed. It’s either a serial killer, or your boyfriend. Not much difference.

“Bri?” you whisper, holding onto the wall.

“Yeah,” he grumbles back. He sits down in the dark living room, and holds his head in his hands, lacing his fingers behind the back of his head. The only light is that of the streetlight across the road from your big, cold New Orleans house.

“You okay?”

He doesn’t answer, and you sit on the hardwood floor with him. The black paint that you’d both been meaning to use on the walls still sat, unopened, beside you. It always reminded you of the times you and he would joke around and say how you’d buy a suburban house with a white picket fence, then paint the fence black and watch the neighborhood fall to pieces in uproar. Causing trouble with you always used to bring his spirits up. He doesn’t look like he’s in a good place right now, though. He hasn’t for a while.

“How’d the day go?” you ask softly, crouching down on your knees in front of him.

Marilyn looks up, and you notice how glazed his eyes look. Well, you think, it’s no different from any other night. He’s always high now. It’s not a judgement; merely an observation. He used to say drugs were all for appearances, to act the part of the rock and roll star he wanted so desperately to be. Now, you’re not so sure, but it’s not your place to say anything about it, and you’re not about to.

He looks at you, eyes travelling downward to sweep over your tiny black satin nightgown. You suddenly become aware of how cold you are right now, sitting on the under-heated living room hardwood. Your boyfriend’s dark stare, however, heats you up.

Wordlessly, he licks his lips. You let out a breath, and let the thin strap of the nightie fall down your shoulder. It’s an invitation… you did miss him.

A quiet moan escapes his lips, and he reaches forward, pressing his mouth to yours. Putting his weight on top of you, he pins you to the floor, peels off his shirt to reveal his pale, thin body, and reaches underneath the nightie. When he finds you naked with no panties, he reaches down to touch himself, unzipping his pants and lowering them just enough. He gives himself a few tugs, letting the blood rush down to his cock.

A breath of hot air on your face, and you feel the head press in, your body slowly accepting him inside. He gives you three seconds to adjust, then starts to fuck in fast and hard. A jolted cry escapes you, and it turns into a sigh as your back arches. Marilyn keeps his hands firmly braced on the hardwood as he pounds into you, each pump of him inside you feeling as if it’s bruising. Your hands scramble downward, and you move your fingers to rub your clit, helping yourself along. Marilyn is unaffected by your attempt to pleasure yourself– he doesn’t tease you by taking your fingers away, and doesn’t offer to take over. He just keeps fucking you, deep, punched out noises coming out of him with each thrust.

After a minute, one of his hands finds your breast, squeezing roughly, like his hand can’t get enough. You choke out a noise, and you look up at his face to see that he’s glowering down at you. His hair is draped around you, and it again brings you back to fond memories of Brian grinning, calling it a curtain so that the world can’t see the two of you fuck.

He’s not smiling now. His face is completely devoid of emotion– at least for a moment. His black eyeshadow makes his eyes appear hollow, and you usually find it sexy, but tonight in the dark, on top of you, he looks ghoulish. His face contorts, and his lips part. His slender hips stutter, and you rub your fingers faster, desperately, feeling your release build, needing it as you grind down onto his cock.

“Wait, wait,” you beg, panting into his neck, “Wait…”

He grunts a couple of times, slamming in hard, and you feel the trickle before you or he can bring you to an orgasm first. His breathing evens out, and with a sigh, he pulls out. As if he’s mechanical, like he knows he’s expected to, he replaces his dick with his fingers– three, he’s not wasting time– and starts to mercilessly shove them in. He knows all your spots. His fingers brush your G-spot as he bends them right where he knows you’ll cum, and you do, gasping his name as he painfully gives you what you need.

The two of you just lie there, staring at the dark ceiling. After about five minutes, the dark starts to move before your eyes, making you see stars, and you need to sit up.

Rubbing your head, you yawn. “You wanna talk about it?”

He doesn’t look at you.

“Brian?”

“No.”

You look out the window, facing every possible reality. “Is there another woman?”

“No.”

“Then what is it?”

The fuse that your initial question lit now explodes in your face.

“Sometimes I don’t want to fucking speak, okay? Can you just respect that and shut the fuck up?”

It’s like a slap in the face. Worse. “…Okay,” you murmur, curling in on yourself as he stands up. Then a voice in your head tells you, _fuck that._ You’re always here for him. You’ve been here for him since he even had the glimmer of an idea for a band, and had supported him through everything. Sure, he’d supported you too in everything you’d done since then– graduating school, moving with him, saying goodbye to your family to come out here. But these past few months, it was as if he was possessed by something darker than all the demons he sang about.

“You know what?” you whisper, “You can’t tell me to shut up.”

“Really?”

“You know why?”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve kept my mouth shut for too long. It’s your life. I will always be proud of you, and supportive of you, and I will never tell you what to do. But when you say shit like that to me? I don’t deserve that.” He doesn’t answer, and you feel your blood rising. “You’d better agree with me real fast.”

“You can’t possibly fucking imagine the stress I’m under right now,” he shoots back, “My band is falling apart. I feel like I’m falling apart.”

“And I’m trying to help you,” you insist.

“You can’t help me. You’re just in my way.” The weight of his words are crushing. “I feel like a hamster in a wheel, (y/n), and I’m ready to chew my own arm off. I’m not getting anywhere and it’s because I have some fucked up idea of a perfect life with you, some stupid notion that entered my stupid unconscious grey matter back when I started this disjointed excuse for a fucking band. I can’t make the record I want to make to get to the future I want to make with you, it’s all dead ends and it’s killing me!”

You balk. And this is somehow your fault? “What am I supposed to do about it?”

“You can’t do anything. All you can do at this point is fuck me when I need you, and leave me the hell alone otherwise.” Through the darkness, you can’t see the tear running down his cheek. He doesn’t mean it. He doesn’t mean any of it, he wishes the automatic wiring of his jaw would stop, _just stop, stop talking you fucker!_

“Wow. You are something. Why don’t you go run to your boyfriend Trent? I’m sure he could help with all of that.”

_Apologize. Hold her in your arms and make her forget this stupid fight happened. _“Yeah, you know what? Maybe I will. He probably gives better head than you too!” That stings. You’ve always prided yourself on your blow jobs.

“Fuck you, Brian Warner.”

He doesn’t answer. He just glares, a glare that seems to drill right through you, like he’s not even glaring at you anymore.

You put a coat and his pants on, since they’re the first ones you find, pick up your bag, shove a few things into it, and leave. He watches you go, numb as he seems to feel every waking moment of his life now. The stubbornness in him won’t let him break down and cry, or throw something, or beat himself in the stomach until he throws up. He can only stand there, the silence like knives digging into his ears.

—

It’s 6:15 am, and you’re waiting for the bus to the airport. Your mom had offered to come pick you up when you get home from New Orleans, and you had gladly accepted. You need your family right now more than ever.

Approaching the flight desk, you look up at all the listings of flights.

“Excuse me, is flight 237 updated?” you frown. She types something in.

“Yes, that’s the latest. I’m afraid the cancellation is due to unforeseen weather conditions at the destination. We can get you on another flight tomorrow.”

You thank her, and leave the airport. You could just sleep in there, but you honestly don’t know what to do with yourself. You just want to lay on the floor and cry away those six years you had been with him… and crying on floors is usually frowned upon in airports.

If Brian was here, he’d tell you to do it, just to see what people would say.

You walk out of the building.

—

“Hey.”

Marilyn doesn’t notice Twiggy’s greeting as he enters Nothing Records’ studio, which is just Trent’s glorified rockstar pad. Jokingly to get his attention, Twiggy takes off his shoe, and tosses it at Marilyn’s head. Marilyn stops, picks it up, takes Pogo’s ligher, lights the shoe up, and sends it crashing through the window. If Twiggy had eyebrows, he would raise them. Trent’s head appears in the doorway from the other room.

“Yeah. You’ll be billed for that. I take it you didn’t have a good night.” And just like that, the light mood he had walked in on was now compromised. _Great going, Brian. You fuck up. Now they’re not only gonna wanna not work and do coke all day, but they’re gonna wanna not work and do coke all day without you. _

Ginger wisely stays out of it, opting instead to use the kitchen for some weird yoga thing he’d been getting into. Daisy is sitting outside on the steps of the house doubling as a studio, recording personal shit into his tape. Pogo walks through the broken glass to go upstairs, and Twiggy awkwardly shuffles backward that way.

“Mar. There’s, uhhh…. there’s a table of blow upstairs if you need it. Y'know… you… look like you could use a line or two.” His best friend gives a sympathetic half smile, offering solace the only way he knows how. He looks like he wants to say something else– to offer council, comfort, anything, but he dashes skittishly the other way as soon as Marilyn turns. The frontman really can’t blame Jeordie. He’s fallen even further into the dope than he has himself, he started a long ass time ago, and moreover, Jeord knows by now that talking to him like this is like poking a bear.

The singer gives a quick glance out the window to make sure he’s not currently burning Trent’s house down with pyrotechnic footwear (he can pay for a broken window, but a burned down house would seriously deprive their touring funds). When he sees that the shoe is just burning calmly on the sidewalk, contained in its own little bubble of anarchy as it quietly disintegrates to ash, Marilyn relates the shoe to his own life.

Or maybe he just wishes that were him.

Promising himself he wouldn’t break down again, he floats like a ghost over to the recording equipment. Their label manager is in the den, watching hockey with Trent or some stupid sports bullshit like that, which leaves him alone, again, to actually try making music. That’s what he does, right? That’s what he’s supposed to do.

His rough recording of the track 'Tourniquet’ is open on the laptop, and for no reason in particular, he starts to play it. Listening to the words, he closed his eyes, and thinks of you. He thinks of your hand holding his, how happy you get when you watch him perform. He hears you whispering that you love him, that he’s enough, that he isn’t broken, that maybe it’s just the system that’s broken.

Leaning his head down on the table, he lets all the emotions wash over him, lets the tears drop and watches the red carpet beneath his knees turn them into drops of blood. Digging around under said carpet, he takes out a small bag they had all stashed under there for “emergencies.” He doesn’t want to do it. He almost splits the bag, almost watches it all pour out, sifting through the floorboards like sugar. But he can’t do that. Not that he doesn’t have the willpower to quit it now– he most certainly does– it just seems like a bigger fuck you to do the coke than to throw it away in favor of self reflection.

Lifting a bump on his knuckle up to his nose, he snorts the powder up, and squeezes his eyes shut. He’s becoming numb to it. He gives himself another, and another, and after five, he quits, dropping the bag and digging his forehead into the table.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Reaching for the mic, he sets it up with shaking hands, turning those hands into fists and tapping an S.O.S into the table, wishing you could hear it and come running to him. He holds the mic, and whispers, clear as day, into it:

_“This is my lowest point of vulnerability.”_

—

An hour must have gone by, and Marilyn finally drags himself up. Walking out to the front steps of the house, he sits down next to Daisy, the Sexual Janitor, his oldest friend and the only soul on the premises who isn’t hopelessly doped up.

"You’re not having a good day,” the guitarist remarks softly, not looking up from his strings.

“What gave me away?” Marilyn mutters sarcastically, rubbing his sore nose. Daisy looks up, studies him. Marilyn doesn’t like to be studied, so he looks away. “(y/n) left.” Daisy runs a hand through his green hair, nods.

They sit for a bit, just exist. Daisy picks up a half-smoked cigarette from the step beside him, and offers it to his friend. The singer glances at it, repulsed, but accepts it anyway between his fingers. He takes a pull, then remembers why smoking is one of his biggest pet peeves. Whipping it into the street to join Twiggy’s burning shoe before Daisy can take it back, he coughs, waves the offending cloud away and groans into his hands.

“My life is falling apart, Scott. I feel like I just lost the last piece that was holding it together.”

Daisy nods again. “I get it. You’re losing it. We’re all losing it.”

“Says the most conscious man here,” Marilyn laughs bitterly, almost envious of Daisy’s sobriety.

“You don’t have to be high to feel like you’re out touch,” Daisy says, strumming his chords, “And I certainly don’t have to be high to know you are out of touch with not only this band, but who you want to be.”

“Shit. Thanks, doc. This is really helpful. I think I’m gonna go inside now and blow my brains out.”

“Hey. Dickwad.” Daisy puts down his guitar. “We’ve both known (y/n) since Spooky Kids. You were closer to her, obviously, but she’s a special one. She’s stayed for this long, through your worst. Don’t lose her now.”

Marilyn sighs, rubbing at his eyes, wondering if his headache is from sleep deprivation or a long overdue brain aneurysm.

Daisy doesn’t encourage him to open up. He doesn’t tell him to accept that it’s human nature to be co-dependent. He doesn’t tell Marilyn that’s love or some stupid shit like that, doesn’t mention that it’s in his nature to push people away. He knows his friend too well to even attempt it. He just leans back against the door, and hums.

“We could all die tomorrow. Wouldn’t you want to be with her your last night?”

Marilyn pauses. He’s never really thought of it like that. “Hey. When did you get so wise?” the singer chuckles.

Daisy just smiles, going back to his guitar. “You haven’t talked to me properly in like, 4 years. We used to be close, man.”

“Yeah,” Marilyn muses, “Yeah.”

—

Standing in front of the house, you wonder why you’re back. You’ve told yourself at least ten times it’s to grab the rest of your stuff so you don’t have to pay him to ship it out to you, but the more you stand here, key in hand, the more you doubt that’s the reason you returned.

Taking a deep breath and shaking your head, you force yourself past the walkway, and let yourself in.

“Hello?” the door creaks, and opens to an empty house. _Good. No distractions._

Walking around, you start to pack all your things properly, and see evidence of a very tough morning in the bathroom. Writing out a note, you think of what you want to say to him. You’d given him so many years of your life, and he you, since you were both angsty kids who just wanted to make your mark on the world. You write out one of his lyrics he had shared with you in bed the other night… if you could just remember them right:

_I wrapped our love in all this foil_

_Silver-tight like spider legs_

_I never wanted it to ever spoil_

_But flies will…_

Ah, fuck it. You crumple the paper. You can’t remember the lyrics properly, and that’ll just do more harm than good. After all… he’s the poet, not you.

Just then, you hear the door knob jiggle, and keys in the lock.

Oh god. You do not have the emotional stability right now to deal with this confrontation. Ducking behind the couch, you lay on your back and try to keep quiet. 

He tosses his keys onto the table, and sighs. He starts mumbling something, but you can’t hear.

—

Marilyn rubs his face, starting to think about dinner. He had an opened packet of kraft dinner somewhere in some cupboard, and even though it would be stale, that sounded pretty good. Mac and cheese with ketchup. White trash through and through and more unhealthy shit to ruin his body with. Whatever. Mac and cheese is comfort food… or so his mom told him.

He runs over the events of the day in his head as he counts how many things he had gotten done. Pissed half his band-mates off, reconnected with one. The middle of the day was a coked up white blur, and… well… he had finished Tourniquet, and Dried Up, Tied was pretty much ready for demo. That’s more than he’d done in a month, but he felt as if he had gone backward, not forward.

_Grab a razor blade, take your shirt off, and check and see if your worthless heart is still pumping blood._

He stamps the intrusive impulse down, and gives an indifferent huff.

As he walks past the dark living room, not bothering to turn on a lamp, the streetlight from outside catches the metal of something he has sitting on a shelf. He backtracks, and finds a few of his lunchboxes from the collection he hadn’t finished unpacking yet. He half smiles, looking at the Scooby Doo one, the Planet of the Apes one, and the one that even had his old band’s name on it. _Marilyn Manson and the Spooky Kids._

He feels a stab of guilt, and makes a mental note to go easier on Daisy. He did contribute a lot in the days of the old gigs.

Why is he referring to it as his old band? It’s still the same band. But somehow, it isn’t. They had grown up, into darker, scarier versions of themselves, each one of them on their own personal path of destruction, taking out everything and everyone in their way. Fundamentally loathsome.

Marilyn scratches his bony rib cage and turns away from the shelf, muttering about filing that one away for a future song or something. He walks over to the fridge, blows off dinner, and grabs a beer, chugging half of it down and heading back toward the living room. With any luck, he’ll have put down three bottles by midnight.

—

You bite your fist. Hiding definitely wasn’t a good idea. Just telling him you were grabbing a couple of things and leaving for good would have done just fine, not… hiding behind your old couch in the dark like a goddamn Nosferatu!

_Shit. He’s coming over here… maybe if you try and crawl around the cushions…_

Marilyn frowns as he sees something move out of the corner of his eye. This time, it isn’t metal glinting. This is real movement.

“Satan? Is that you?” he whispers, and lets out a humorless laugh. Ah, the small joys of sharing an inside joke with yourself. (y/n) would find it funny. He swings the beer bottle in his hand, setting it down beside the couch. “If it is… I could use a bit of your black spell shit, you magical goat motherfucker. See, I’ve got this girl. She’s everything I want, but of course, I fuck up things that’re good in my life– you know me– so that’s done. Congratu-fuckin-lations, Manson, you’ve done it again. So, if you wanna… take my soul or something, if it’s not too damaged, you can go right ahead, buddy. No returns. If I didn’t have a soul, I’d have a lot less pr–” He lets out a piercing yell as he sees you crawling on his floor. That’s not Satan.

Flicking the closest lamp on, he sees it’s you. “(y/n)!”

You glare at him. “I was getting my things.” 

“On the floor?!”

“You hide drugs in the floor, why can’t I?”

“You don’t d… what the fuck are you doing here, and… oh god, I thought you were some crazy girl who got in through my window or something.”

“You thought I was Satan.”

“I thought you were gonna kill me!”

You shrug. “I still might.” Marilyn almost lets out an incredulous laugh of relief. It’s almost like old times again. You frown, and remember why you’re there, and that it is not, in fact, like old times. “Just… I’m not ready to talk to you. Please don’t try.”

You quickly grab your things, and he stands there. “Why’d you come back when you knew I could be here?”

“Don’t make this about you. I’m leaving.”

“Go ahead, leave. I’m just asking a question, god forbid.”_ Shut up! Don’t do this again. Tell her you’re sorry, you stupid prick, tell her you love her, like you rehearsed!_

“Yes, god forbid you try and talk to me after you told me last night I was a useless fucktoy, Brian.”

The room fills with the same old silence again, and you roll your eyes. You should have known nothing would change. He sits down, and watches you pack. He watches you put everything in your bag, everything he’d committed to memory over the past 7 years… stuff of yours that had become stuff of his too. It was so strange, seeing everything hidden away in the flaps of your duffel bag.

He isn’t numb anymore. He’s in pain, and he knows you are too, because of him. That’s not fair, and if his ambition proved anything, it was his capability to unfuck things that were not meant to get fucked in the first place.

“I miss laughing.”

“What?” you demand.

“I miss laughing,” he repeats. “I haven’t smiled properly in a year. I’m depressed, sure, but who isn’t? It isn’t an excuse. Sometimes I wonder if there is a hypocritical, horrible, sick bastard of a god watching me. Sometimes I wonder if he would laugh at me if I prayed to him.”

“Yeah. Well. I pray sometimes, to whatever the hell’s out there. Sometimes I pray my life was just a dream,” you say, and he looks at you.

“(y/n). I love you so damn much.”

You suck in a breath. If you turn around and look at him, you’ll be lost again. But like any good drug, you just can’t resist.

Turning around, you walk over to him. Sighing, you sit in his lap, moving your legs over the arm of the chair so that you’re draped over him. You two sit like that for a bit, neither one of you willing to be the first one to make physical contact. You’re both too stubborn. Eventually, you know you’re going to have to be the one to do it. You know he’s already hugged you a billion times in his mind in the last minute, and he’s punishing himself more than you ever could.

“You’re still an asshole,” you whisper.

“I’ll always be an asshole,” he mutters back, “It’s in my DNA. I can’t change that.” _I can be less of an asshole to the people who love me. I promise. _His eyes seem to say it, and you understand. You take his hand, which allows him to subsequently pull you in and cradle you.

“Yeah. Just don’t forget who was there for this asshole’s first show.”

“Mmm.”

“You dedicated Lucy In The Sky With Demons to me.”

“Yeah. I remember.”

“Listen. I love you too. I don’t wanna leave. Okay? So I’m not going to.”

He buries his face into your neck, and you let him release anything he’s been feeling since last night, anything he’s been repressing. You rub his back gently, and he squeezes you tighter as he chokes out your name, shaking violently with every sob.

“I know, Bri. I know. I’m here.”

A few minutes go by. He wipes his face, and it starts to rain outside. You glance out the window. “Guess I’m really not leaving tonight.”

He hums. “You want mac and cheese?”

“Uhhh, is that even a question?”

You roll off him. He presses a kiss to the top of your head, and walks over to the kitchen to root around in the cupboard. You lay on your back again in starfish position, staring at the mildewy ceiling of this crappy old house.

“I lit Jeordie’s shoe on fire today!” your boyfriend calls out to you, “Nearly burned Trent’s house down. Would’ve been an improvement, it’s an ugly fucking house and sad excuse for a studio. You should see it. That jerk-off should pay me to burn it down, swear to the holy old bastard in the sky.” You giggle into a pillow.

_There’s your antichrist._


	14. Universally Loathsome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After his show at the Hard Rock in Orlando, you and your man put your complimentary Universal Studios park passes to good use.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Era: Heaven Upside Down

His lazy drawl fills the Hard Rock Cafe arena, as the strobes go crazy.

“I love you beautiful motherfuckers so much,” he points to the crowd, to a response of deafening cheers, “Florida’s where it all started for me, and… I almost got arrested for indecent exposure in Jacksonville, which is… pretty close to here.” More cheering. “So if any willing gentlemen in the crowd would like to come up here… and let me put my dick in their mouth…” The cheers grow. “…History can repeat itself.” He grins, stumbling around and leaning on the mic stand. “I wonder what would happen if I… oops,” he pops the top button of his vest open. “Oh no, I can’t believe I just showed you all my tits, ahh, I’m such a slut…”

The crowd is going absolutely insane, and he winks over to you suggestively. You watch your boyfriend, trying to hold in your giggles. He’s in what he likes to call rascal mode tonight, you can tell. And good thing– you two roped complimentary passes inside the theme park for the rest of the night to celebrate, so he can let out all this energy after the show. The regular park closes in a half an hour, horror nights too, with it being Halloween, but the extra hour is just for you two, paid for well no doubt.

After Mar’s done and the strobes distract the audience enough for him to bound off stage, he runs into your open arms. After you hug your sweaty man, he picks you up, spinning you around and smiling like a big kid.

“Let’s go play." 

"Shower first,” you give him a stern look. He nods, resigning himself to the fact that he’s really gross and covered in sticky glitter makeup.

You hang out backstage as he gets cleaned up, saying goodnight to some of the roadies. You check social media and search for this concert, as you do sometimes just for fun, and see people already sharing photos they’d taken of Marilyn screaming or wading into the crowd.

You snort to yourself, and save one that looks right up his nostril. Beautiful angle, and perfect for blackmail when he’s being a dick.

“Let’s do this.”

You turn, and see him dressed in a hoodie that reminds you of the full body zip from his High End Of Low days.

“I know what you’re thinking, and no, this is not the depression hoodie,” he sticks a finger in your face and wags it. “I burned that a long time ago.” You pretend to bite his finger, and take his arm.

Your bodyguards, who warily agreed to leave the two of you alone once you get into the park, lead you down, out the back door of the hotel venue, and through a citywalk shortcut to the front gates of Universal Studios Orlando.

“I haven’t been here since I was a teenager,” you grin, listening to the entrance music and sighing from the nostalgia. “This has always been my happy place.”

“I’ve literally never been here,” he tells you, “We go to the one back home in LA, but I’ve never been to this one myself. I used to live here but I only ever wreaked havoc on Disney with Twiggy.”

“Oh, Universal was spared?”

“Until now, yeah. So you’ll have to be my tour guide here.” He takes his sunglasses from his face, hands them off, and turns to his guards. “Okay, that’s fine, we’re fine.”

“Sir, we really think–”

“We talked to the park operators, and there’s like… nobody here right now, we’re both fine,” Marilyn insists, “Bye.” So, you two are left alone as you walk toward the gates.

Your passes are scanned by an older woman who doesn’t seem to recognize Marilyn, since his name on the pass is Brian. For the best. To your left, towers one of your favourite rides.

“The Rip Ride Rockit,” Marilyn reads the sign, “Ooh. Ooh, I wanna do this. Fuckin cool looking.”

“Bri, you get sick on roller coasters.”

“I’m too drunk to be sick, the drunk sick makes me not motion sick.”

“Well, glad to hear your body has a system,” you sigh, and he takes your hand as you two run toward the lit up ride.

“You get to pick your song as you ride,” he muses, “Motherfuckers should have my songs on here.”

Because he likes to stir shit up and see what he can get away with, Marilyn uses a VIP lanyard with his face on it to get into the express lane.

“Uh…” the young employee hesitates, frowning, “Sir, this is a meet and greet for that concert, not for–” Marilyn puts his hood down, and the guy’s eyes widen. He waves you both through, starstruck. 

“Whoever said you shouldn’t use your fame to get stuff… probably wasn’t even famous,” Marilyn says, pulling you up the steps.

“What’s the hurry?” you laugh, trying to keep up, “You’re just gonna throw up all over me anyway.”

“It’s a music ride, that’s very exciting to me,” he says. You can’t deny you’ve missed this ride too, so you keep up.

You’re the only two on the roller coaster train as you both pull the bar over from the side to strap yourselves in. The employee working comes over to check, and gives a thumbs up to the operator.

“Give me a handjob,” he giggles.

“No! I’m gonna rip your dick off if we do that on this!”

“Nah, that’d happen like… on the Mummy.” Apparently he remembers what the Mummy is like in the LA Universal park, and he’s not wrong. “Uh. Uh,” he starts to snap his fingers as the ride goes up, “Yeah. Hell yeah.”

“What song?” you laugh.

“Stronger, by my boy Kanye.”

“He’s a dickhead, you know.”

“So am I, doesn’t make my music any less amazing.”

You smirk. You’d picked Stronger as well, anyway. 

After the ride, Marilyn hangs onto you, a little bit woozy. “That was a mistake.”

“I told you.”

“I don’t listen, I’m a child, you know this._ I don’t like the rides, but the rides like me.”_

You two walk through the park, past the San Francisco area of the water in the middle.

“This is nice. Just walking.”

“Yeah,” he says. “It’s nice not to vomit.” You rest your head on his shoulder, giggling.

You two do a few more rides– he has way too much fun in Men in Black shooting at everything, and Simpsons becomes a favourite, even if the only part he could keep his eyes open for was the funny queue playing the episodes. He even takes some dark, creepy pictures with the employees in Diagon Alley, posing in his new Slytherin scarf he bought.

“Can this be used for sexy purposes?” he asks one of them, holding up a wand. The girls giggle, and you roll your eyes.

“Um. Wouldn’t recommend it,” one responds.

“On the other hand…” the second one shrugs, “It’s magic. You could just make it into something that could be used for sexy times.”

“I like the way this one thinks,” Marilyn smirks. “(y/n), I’m gonna use this in you.”

“Like hell you are.”

“Please?”

“You can use it to spank me.” You lean in to whisper. “It’s too thin to put it in.” 

Marilyn buys the wand just to make up for the trouble he’s causing the poor employees.

You head out of Harry Potter world, and circle back around to do ET.

"I wanna do the Mummy again. And what about those big ones across the citywalk thing? Spiderman, he’s cool. I wanna do his ride." 

"That’s the other park. If you wanna deal with your manager having a meltdown by requesting another day here tomorrow, that’s your call.” He immediately takes out his phone, and you huff, feeling sorry for the guy, always having to rearrange flights last minute. 

“Yeah, hey. It’s me,” Marilyn drawls into the phone, “I need another day here tomorrow. No, I’m just… I’m gonna be really hungover. Lots of vodka and drugs and stuff. Yeah. Amphetamines, got my face in a big… yeah, really bad, I won’t be able to fly tomorrow.” His eyes light up like a kid in a candy store as he sees the Halloween Horror Nights 2018 tribute store. “Gotta go, I’m snorting coke off (y/n)’s tits. Cancel my flight!”

You both run in, and get shirts from inside– yours is a Halloween 4: The Return of Michael Myers one, and his is a Killer Klowns from Outer Space one, with a little clown in boxing gloves on it that says ‘Shorty’s Boxing Gym: Knocking Blocks Off Since '88.“ He poses for a picture of the new shirt in front of an old horror movie poster, hands in his jacket pockets and doing his signature sneer. He posts it on his Instagram, captioning it: "Next motherfucker’s gonna get my metal. Pic📷: @(y/handle) #justustwoclowns #wannatussle #truelove #wehatelovewelovehate #happyhalloween #universalorlando #shooterjennings”.

You head inside the Egyptian crypt that leads to the Mummy, listening to Brendan Fraser’s fake interview about the strange things going on on set. 

“I met him once,” Marilyn tells you, “He was scared of me, he thought I was flirting with him.”

“I can see how he would. You’re just overly affectionate,” you pat his arm.

“And high as fuck, but I wasn’t flirting with him. He’s too much of a pretty boy for me." 

"Yet you still wanna fuck Johnny,” you tease him, and he grins, unable to refute that.

You finally get to the loading area after Marilyn stumbles over four posts in the dark queue. The lady there squeals. She’s a different one than the one working earlier, and she’s obviously a fan.

“Sorry for her,” her coworker says, “She’s a huge fan of your stuff.”

“Nah, it’s cool,” Marilyn offers a smile.

“I was at the concert, which is why I’m working late,” she explains hyperactively, “God, you were soooo amazing!” Marilyn thanks her. She waves at you as well. “By the way, I see your pictures together on insta at shows and premieres and stuff, you two make a really cute couple. Goth icons!” You smile at the girl, and thank her and her coworker for working late for you two. An obligatory selfie later, you and Marilyn get into the ride, and start heading through the darkness. You get to the part where Imohtep’s face appears and fire blows beside you.

“You say god,” he mutters. “I say Say10.”

You get off the ride, and you nearly lose your shit when you see the ride photo. You fall to the floor, and Marilyn looks up at the screen in inquiry.

“Oh my god.”

“We’re buying it!”

“Absolutely fucking not. Look at my chin!”

“I love your chins, baby.”

“I only mentioned one, but thanks.”

You dash over to the counter, ordering the picture in the biggest size. It’s gold. In it, you’ve got one hand up happily, the other looped with Marilyn’s, and you look generally normal, other than your hair blowing a little from the force of the acceleration. His eyes are glinting yellow from light reflection, so he looks legitimately possessed; he’s got his chin pressed down into his neck folds, and his mouth is halfway open, like he just remembered something he wanted to say. It’s the most awful picture of him you’ve ever seen, so naturally, it’s getting framed at the house next to his lovely prosthetic limb collection.

“Mm, makes me wanna fuck you,” you lick your lips, “Give it to me, baby, I wanna look into those sexy yellow eyes while you destroy my pussy.”

“You’re fucked up.”

You nearly collapse in laughter again.

Despite the terribly candid ride picture, Marilyn decides he likes the Mummy a bit more than the Simpsons, and after riding it four more times without fail, he’s nauseous as all hell (as are you) and done in for the night.

You hold hands, heading to the gates. “Hey. Want to stop at Ben and Jerry’s on the way out?” you ask.

“Nah,” he drawls, hand moving down to your ass and giving it a spank, “You’re the only thing I wanna lick tonight.” Even motion sick and half-way to hungover, he’s still in rascal mode.

A car comes to pick you up, and some press follow you to the car for a bit, taking photos and asking Marilyn for comments on the park and the show until Marilyn wraps his Slytherin scarf around his face. He gets into the car with you, and rolls the window up. The paparazzi obviously saw the Instagram post.

_That makes you think…_

Messing around on your phone as you’re driven back to the hotel, you giggle. Marilyn keeps looking over, but he’s currently too nauseous still to speak. You giggle again, and send off what you’d just done.

“Happy Halloween,” you grin, punching his shoulder playfully.

He looks at his buzzing phone, and snorts. His bad Mummy picture and stylish posing Instagram picture are side by side, with your accompanying text: _“Get you a man who can do both." _


	15. Just For Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A friend of the band’s, you travel with them on tour. Shenanigans offstage and onstage occur, and tensions reach their peak when Manson decides it’s a good idea to put you out on stage as a backup dancer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Era: Mechanical Animals

* * *

You’re not a groupie per say, but the definition does seem to suit your purpose in the band.

You had been friends with Ginger (or Kenny, as you know him) in Vegas when you had both been working stint gigs at the Circus Circus casino. He was a carnie, and you were a floor hostess, encouraging drunk tourists to drain their money with your flattering corsets and eyelash batting. You and Kenny had gotten along great, and had kept in touch after he had left to join a band.

Lo and behold, his band had become one of the most popular (and controversial) musical acts America had ever seen, and you had been so proud of him. He had been so excited that he had introduced you to all of his bandmates one night after a Vegas show. He had warned you that they were a little wild, but instantly, you had fit right in. You’d never felt more at home with a group of people.

Subsequently, you’d been invited on tour with them on the Last Tour On Earth, and you had immediately agreed. What you’d seen of it so far had been the craziest, most decadent few weeks of your life… and it was far from over.

“Here it is, right here,” Marilyn holds up a sheet of regulation paper in the hallway of the backstage venue.

“In red white and blue,” you add.

“–Look at this. Disposal: the flag, when it is no longer a fitting emblem for display, should be destroyed in a dignified way, preferably by BURNING! Well, it’s not ready anymore, and I’m gonna BURN IT!”

You giggle, and he picks you up on his back, boosting you and bouncing around in the backstage hall as you start to slip and squeal. John is practicing a wild guitar riff, Pogo is defacing the wall, Ginger is doing headstands, and Twiggy is tossing various pens at the ceiling, conducting an experiment of which one will be big enough to crack it.

You’re all like a bunch of middle-schoolers when the teacher leaves the room.

The teacher finally comes back, though; the stage manager comes back to the hall, whistling sharply to get everyone’s attention. Everyone looks over, and Twiggy dodges the chunk of ceiling he finally broke off.

“You’re on in 5 minutes.”

“You got the first song, right?” Marilyn calls over, pointing, “Hate Anthem. Hate. Anthem. Have my oxygen guys ready with the mask, I almost died last night. And have the flag ready to burn during the encore.”

“That’s ille–" 

"Did I stutter? Don’t screw up, asshole.”

The guy just nods, hurrying off, and Ginger opens his mouth.

“You don’t have to be so mean to them,” he says, “They’re just trying to do their job.”

“Will somebody dope Ginger up? Our drummer cannot be the downer tonight,” Marilyn says. John just smiles at Ginger, who shakes his head in good nature. You hop down off of Marilyn’s back.

“You know what? I agree, Kenny. You’re an asshole, Manson.” The singer grins at you.

“Fuck my asshole, (y/n).”

“Give me the dildo pants, and I will!”

Pogo cheers you on, and Twiggy looks back sadly, tipping upside down on a chair. “They’re in the wash.”

A collective chorus of groans.

“Use your tongue,” John suggests. Marilyn flicks his own tongue at the blonde guitarist.

“Yeah, you liked that, didn’t you John?”

“Fingers,” Twiggy suggests.

“It’s not the same,” Marilyn complains, “I want (y/n) inside me.”

“Ha! You sound like such a slut,” Ginger grins. The stage manager comes back in at the perfect time. Manson gasps dramatically.

“What’d you call him a slut for, Ginger? He’s just trying to do his job.”

—

_“This isn’t me. I’m not m e c h a n i c a l.”_

The show is so much fun to watch from the wings. You always love the costume changes before The Dope Show, when he becomes Omēga. He looks so nice in that pink sequined dress…

Like. Objectively. Not that you personally think so.

—

After the show, he wipes a towel over his makeup, and comes stalking over to you.

“Fuck.”

You flick your wrist, lounging on the backstage couch.

“Proceed with your complaints.”

“Fucking Deborah gets sick eight shows into the tour. She was our best fucking backup dancer.”

You cringe. “Damn.”

“Yeah. She always had coke too,” Twiggy sighs dejectedly, collapsing beside you and laying his head in your lap.

Manson paces in frustration. After what feels like an eternity, his eyes light up. “Oh! (y/n), You know how you’re always dancing around back here and shit?”

“Yeah.”

“I say we bring you on as a replacement during User Friendly for tomorrow night’s show. Crowd would go fuckin nuts, cause from an outside perspective, you’re stupidly hot.”

Pogo looks to you and giggles. Ginger raises his eyebrows, John gives you a supportive thumbs up, and Marilyn crosses his arms expectantly.

_Outside perspective?! _You try not to mull that one over.

“Okay,” you shrug, since it’d be the least predictable thing to do. They do need someone, it might as well be you helping out. Pogo looks absolutely shocked out of his mind. Marilyn smirks, sauntering up to you in that skintight pink outfit. He pinches your chin, resting his hand on your back, just above your ass.

“Knew we could get some use outta you, kid.”

You have to fight the lust in your sigh as he walks off, confident swing of his slender hips sending you into fever.

God, you just need to get laid! _Yeah, that’s it. That’s all it is. It’s not Manson, per say, it’s… anyone! Anyone could come up to you right now and you’d fuck them, that’s all._

“You look like you just saw a monster cock,” Pogo whispers in your ear, grinning. “Wanna see mine?”

“Ew! Fuck off, Stephen!” you snap, and he giggles, running off to join Twiggy.

Welp. There’s that theory shot to hell.

Twiggy and Pogo burst into Manson’s private dressing room.

“Gimme,” Twiggy tries to snatch up Pogo’s bag of “exotic” weed, but the keyboardist won’t let him.

“Buzz off!”

“Give me… the…”

“No! My shit, I roll it, that’s the rule!”

“You roll like a pussy, you’re…”

“Let… go…!” They accidentally crash into the singer.

Manson snatches the bag up, jams it down his pants, wipes it through his asscrack, and tosses it back. Pogo drops it, rolling his eyes, and Twiggy kicks it dejectedly.

“You wanna fuck (y/n), don’t you Mans?” the bassist mutters, sitting down cross legged on the floor like a kindergartener. Marilyn drags a makeup wipe over his blue forehead.

“I don’t know.”

“Ohhh, rejected!” Pogo snickers. Manson tosses his makeup bag at him.

“I’m not rejecting her you shitwad, I just… don’t know if I wanna fuck her. It’s weird, cause normally, I’d have already fucked her and probably discarded her on some tour stop somewhere.”

“Exactly, that’s why I’m asking,” Twiggy mumbles.

“But the thing is, I don’t wanna fuck her and be done with it. I like having her around.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, me too…”

“But it’s not like that. Not really. She’s a friend. To all of us.”

Marilyn looks in the mirror, carefully swiping the lipliner off. Most nights he didn’t bother removing the makeup before bed– he was just too lazy– but he did on the nights he needed to think. And tonight, he definitely needed to think alone.

“Okay, unless one of you wants to give me a blow job, get the hell out, I’m gonna jack off.”

Pogo frowns, using his shirt tail to pick up his bag of pot covered in butt sweat. Twiggy shrugs.

“I could use a blow job too if you wanna trade.”

“I wasn’t serious, I just need alone time.”

“Fair enough.”

Twiggy lumbers out too, staring at the ceiling like it's outer space, and Marilyn shuts the door a little too quickly. He sits at his dressing room table, and though he promised himself he’d distract it, his mind keeps wandering back to you. He imagines you in the little backup dancer sequined outfit, imagines the curve of your ass in it, how the outfit would hug your breasts.

Without even taking notice of the familiar motion, he starts to drag his fingers up and down the outline of his semi through his show pants, shuddering under his own touch. With ease, he slips his cock out the waistband of the black underwear, the sensitive head brushing against his stomach. He moans softly as he finally wraps a hand around it. You’d shake your ass for him to see, looking at him with those fuck me eyes he has to see all the time. The problem is, you don’t even know you’re doing it.

“Oh, fuck,” he whispers, looking down at the erection heavy in his hand. Well, screw it. He has no shame. Spitting in his palm, he speeds up his pace to a blur of his wrist. His hips start to arch up off the chair, and he fucks his fist, imagining it’s you, hard and fast, no time to indulge in teasing here. He gasps, twisting over the head and…

“Jesus, ah… ah… oh…” he grunts, and feels the sticky white coat his hand. That felt like a million years coming.

_Okay, so he wants to fuck you. Great._

He’s still horny, though. “Jeordie! Get in here, I changed my mind!”

At least now he can picture your lips, too.

—

_“Use me, when you wanna cum. I bled just to have a touch. When I’m in you I wanna die.”_

You listen for your cue, eyes fixed on Marilyn. It would be a lie to say you’re not a little nervous. You’d never gone on stage in front of a stadium of thousands of people before, and it’s totally not what you signed up for. What if you ruin the dancing? What if you stumble and unplug some wires? Mar would absolutely crucify you.

No. You’d be fine. And you would totally not stare at him the whole time, wishing he was watching you, only you, singing to you, not the crowd.

_Get yourself together, (y/n)!_

You walk out on stage when the other dancers do, and start to move your hips to the music.

Marilyn watches you, almost forgetting the lyrics for a split second as your ass dips low. His dick stirs in its tight confines, and he curses himself for not leaving a little room with the lace up panty-contraption tonight. His dick is already throbbing, and way too constricted down there. But like any good performer would, he just grimaces, pushing through to the next verse.

_“Use me, like I was a whore. Relationships are such a bore. Delete the ones that you’ve fucked.”_

A wild idea strikes you, but you don’t entertain it. Then again, these shows were all about being shocking, right?

Adrenaline running through you, you drop over the side of a speaker, arching your back, and put your fingers in and out of your mouth, moaning softly as you pretend to get fucked for the audience. Completely by accident, you lock eyes with this one guy in the first row of the mosh pit, and you go with it. Your eyelids droop, and you look at him, while you rock your hips and press the heel of your palm to yourself, eyes rolling back. The guy shouts, “Yeah, baby!”

Marilyn catches sight of you from the other side of the stage, and quickly works out what’s happening. What the fuck are you doing? His heartbeat increases (where’s the oxygen mask when he needs it?) and he watches you make slutty gestures at the drunk guy in the pit, going all out above and beyond with the dancing. All consuming rage fills him, and he stomps over, an imposing sight. He growls the words to the chorus lead up as he grabs you by the back of the neck and drags you over to centre stage with him.

_“User friendly, fucking dopestar obscene, will you die when you’re high? You’ll never die just for me…”_ He’s snarling the words angrily into the mic directly by your ear as he holds you up by your hair, and you can hear the sheer malice in his voice. Shuddering, you catch yourself as he shoves you down over the front speaker, pulling your ass up to meet him.

_“User friendly, fucking dopestar, obscene.”_ He thrusts his hips forward in a fittingly obscene grind, and you feel his hard cock rub against your ass. You groan, gasping over the speaker and grinding back. Manson growls again, grinding his hips slowly, then with the increasing beat of the song, he begins to fuck his hips forward with a brutal pace, rubbing downward against your pussy. The only fabric between you two is his stage underwear and yours under the costume skirt. Every hump, he pushes you against the hard edge of the speaker, the pain in your ribs mixing with the friction against your clit. You try to keep your face together for the audience, but oh god… you realize with a burst of anxiety that you’re about to finish.

Marilyn’s eyes flit up to meet the guy in the pit’s, almost in challenge. Another wave of jealous fury overtakes him, and he grins at the guy, as if to say, “Yeah? She’s fucking mine.” He pounds his hips forward again, and shoves up your skirt to fondle your bare ass.

You moan, fingers curling around the edge of the stage. Everyone is watching…

_“Will you die when you’re high? You never die just for me,” _Manson growls, voice thick with arousal, and through the microphone, you can hear his grunts. You gasp, body beginning to jolt and shiver. He brings a hand down hard over your ass, and lifts his arms up as the crowd cheers. You bite your lip, revelling in the feeling.

_“She says…”_

Suddenly, there’s a microphone in your face, and Manson tugs your hair back, lifting your face to the audience. You speak the words into the mic, voice seductive and hitched.

“I’m not in love, but I’m gonna fuck you, til somebody better comes along.”

“Tell me again, princess,” Marilyn growls softly in your ear.

“I-I’m not in love, b-but… I’m gonna fuck you, til somebody bett–ahhh,” you gasp, feeling your orgasm begin to wash over you. “-C-comes alooong!”

Smugly, Marilyn lets your hair go, and the crowd eggs him on as he finishes the song.

“Somebody better might come along, but it’s definitely not this guy,” he yells, pointing to the guy staring at you in the pit, and the crowd shouts and jeers along.

Manson walks with purpose over to John, who’s going nuts on his guitar.

“Extended solo,” he whispers, and John gives a slight nod of acknowledgement. The singer walks over, grabs you by the arm, and leads you off as John takes center stage and starts playing around on the chords, prolonging the song.

“I…” you breathe, and he puts his hands around your face, cupping it and pulling you into a deep, bruising kiss. His hands reach down to grope your breasts, and you both fall to the floor. You wrap your arms and legs around his back, and he reaches down, cursing all the ties his underwear has. He finally yanks the string loose, and pulls his stockings down to his knees, fumbling to line himself up.

“Hurry, get it in me,” you breathe, and he finally pushes in, both of you moaning at the same time as if the greatest pressure had just been lifted.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he whispers.

“Yeah, you’re so big, daddy.”

“Fuck. Fuck, that’s hot.”

“Harder,” you whine, and he starts to fuck you rough, slamming your back into the floor with every thrust.

“Cum on this cock,” he growls, sneering down at you, “Cum like you did onstage, in front of all those people.”

“Oh god!”

“All of them watching you. They all watched me take you like a bitch, like my little whore!”

“I’m your whore,” you gasp, “Fuck me like a whore, baby, oh god, I’m so close.”

He grunts, sucking your neck. He moves his lips down, and rips the cleavage of your dress, sucking on your nipples.

“Please,” you give a broken cry, and his hips stall for a second, before his thrusts lose their rythym and get even faster.

“Take it,” he growls, “It’s all you’re good for.” You scream his name as he pumps deep inside of you, finishing at the same time as you. Your nails claw his back, and his eyes squeeze shut. A few breaths later, you both lock eyes.

“You just came in me,” you pant.

He swallows, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah.”

You both stare at each other for a long time, and you kiss him again. That’s a problem you could worry about tomorrow.

Leaping up, Manson grabs a big fur coat from the rack, and bounds back onstage, screaming into the microphone that it’s time for The Dope Show.

—

After the burning of the flag and the end of the show, Ginger walks the long way backstage through the pit, since no one ever recognized him. He walks by a couple guys.

“Dude, did you see that shit? Fucking unreal!”

“Awesome, man. Manson was totally t-bagging that chick right there, what a fucking boss!” The two leave, laughing, and Ginger swallows, watching after them. Then he hurries backstage.

“What was that?” he asks Twiggy incredulously.

“Didn’t you hear those two metal dudes? Manson was t-bagging (y/n) on stage,” Twiggy laughs uncontrollably.

“Did he actually do it?” John hisses conspiratorially, like they’re at a sleepover or something.

“You were there, Lowrey,” the keyboardist says.

“Yeah, but I was focused on my shredding!”

“Nerd,” Pogo mutters.

“I hear you all whispering,” you say, coming in. You’d changed out of your ripped up dress and into a backstage robe. “Just because we act like we’re in high school doesn’t mean we have to gossip.”

“Did you two…?!” John blurts.

“Yeah,” you grin, and Kenny laughs incredulously, high fiving you.

“The crowd was on fire tonight because of that. You two rocked it.”

“I don’t know, I think the crowd was feeding off my keyboard energy,” Pogo cuts in, and gets a bottle thrown at him.

You head off toward the tour bus. Your change of clothes is on there.

As you’re walking, you feel a tug on your bathrobe, and you realize too late someone had stepped on your tie. You squeal as it falls off, and you feel arms around you, picking you up and lifting you into a dressing room.

“I guess I should’ve expected that,” you sigh when you see Marilyn. He smirks at you, in all your naked glory.

“Since you’re my little stage slut now, we’d better start practicing some more moves.”

You put a finger on his chest, snatching your robe back.

“Give me a break! We’ve got the whole rest of the tour, Mr. Superstar.”


	16. Go On, Smile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and the band terrorize the local mall. AKA The totally fictional, fucked up origins of the samples from Cake and Sodomy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Era: Portrait Of An American Family

There’s nothing left to do in this town.

You, your boyfriend, and a few members of his band that aren’t still sleeping, are wandering around the small town they’re set to perform tonight. The venue’s gonna be tiny, just like the town, but at this point, any gig is a good gig. They’re touring their asses off to promote their first studio album, an album nobody thought could possibly get produced. Lots of touring meant a few shitty stops (okay, a fair amount), and it meant days of either doing drugs in hotel rooms, pasting flyers around the city, or trying to do normal things.

“We could vandalize buses,” Jeordie suggests. 

“There’s only one bus that comes by here, once every hour at half past sharp,” Pogo replies, staring at the palm of his hand. “I’ve been watching it.”

“What about the mall?” you suggest.

“Does barbie want to go shopping?” Pogo mutters. You throw a crumpled up fast food bag from the ground at him.

Brian finally speaks up. “The mall’s not a bad idea, actually. There might be makeup stores there, I can swipe some pancake shit for tonight’s show.”

Now that their fearless leader had spoken, everyone grunted their own form of agreement, getting up off the park bench.

Making it to the mall, Jeordie runs over to the directory. “I’m going to the candy store.” Pogo seems to like that idea, and the two walk off. Brian calls after them.

“Assholes! Meet us back at the doors by six, we’ve got a show to get to!” He turns to you, taking your hand and rolling his eyes. “As if they don’t get enough drugs. Now they need sugar highs too.”

The two of you walk toward the drugstore to check out the makeup. Brian immediately heads over to the lip aisle, and starts pocketing some reds and plum colours.

“You know… I wouldn’t mind a bit of candy,” you tell him, swinging your hand with his, “A nice, big lollipop.”

Brian licks his lips. “How would you lick it, baby? Swirl your tongue over the tip?”

“I’d get it all into my mouth, then when it hits the back of my throat, I’d swallow all that sweet sugar.” Brian groans, starting to walk toward the candy store with you too, and you shrug. “But I’d settle for some sugar babies.”

“You get the sugar babies,” he smirks, “I’ll get the sugar daddy.”

“You are not a sugar daddy,” you laugh. He scoffs.

“I could be!” He slides his hand down to feel up your ass. “I could be your daddy, babygirl.”

“You’re the same fucking age as me, and you’ve got no money.”

He shakes his head. “Just give this record a little more time. Once Interscope pushes it and Portrait sells a billion copies, stadiums all over the world’ll want Marilyn Manson to scare the crap out of their upstanding citizens. We’ll be in demand! Then I can buy you all sorts of weird relics.”

“Special,” you smile, “Normal sugar daddies buy their babies diamonds. No, I get prosthetic hands and Eichmann’s aluminum dentures.”

“You love it." 

"I do,” you giggle, and his eyes suddenly take on that mischievous glint.

“Photo booth.”

“Bri, really?”

“We gotta go in, and do a porno shoot.”

“What?!”

“There’s nobody around but us. Come on baby, let’s take really fucking dirty pictures.”

“You know, they probably save these somewhere to print them, right?”

“Good, you can flash your tits, make the mall cop jack off. Here, we can record, and put it on the new single, Cake and Sodomy! It’ll be perfect.”

You blush, and he pulls you into the little tent in the middle of the pathetically empty strip mall. He sets up the camera, closes the curtain, and you keep giggling.

“You go here,” he sets you up on mark like a master movie director, and you check the screen, making sure the star anatomy is properly centered. Then you reach down and pull your top over your head, unhooking your bra. Brian bites his bottom lip.

“Shit, you’re gonna make _me _have to jack off.” You knee him lightly in the crotch playfully.

“Focus on the shoot, Spielberg.” He puts his hands over your breasts from behind, and you yelp.

“Jesus Christ, Brian!”

“What?!”

“At least warm your hands up a little. God, it’s like being fondled by the Grim Reaper!”

“Geez–”

“Boobs are very delicate things, okay, they’re not like dicks, you can’t just whip them out and expect–”

“Okay, alright, there. There! All warmed up. You happy?" 

"Yes,” you pout, and he kisses your cheek quickly, before darting forward to press capture and resuming his position. The first flash goes off, with Brian’s hands grabbing your breasts. Second one begins to count down.

“What should we do, quick, what should we do?!” you squeal, laughing, and he looks around. He gets on his knees, bringing his face up, and sucks on your nipple for the third shot.

“Get your dick out,” you urge, “Hurry, do it!”

He unzips his pants, and gets his dick as close as he can to the camera.

For the fifth shot, you get on your knees this time, holding Brian’s dick and licking the tip as the last flash goes off. He presses play on his tape recorder, and you stand up, kissing him and making the sexiest noises you can.

_“Alright…. mmm… mmmm!”_

The two of you are laughing uncontrollably like children as you exit the booth with the printed strip. “Gorgeous,” you nod, inspecting it.

“We’re hot. I’d wanna fuck us,” he says.

“God, same.”

“We should use these as album art.”

“Go for it,” you shrug, “I’m sure it’d help sell all those billions of copies you promised.” You bite your pinkie nail, looking back at the booth. “What if there were cameras that were watching inside, though? Like other cameras?” He massages your shoulders as you walk.

“I told you, there probably were. I already shoplifted, might as well be arrested for public indecency as well. It’ll help my, uh… dangerous rock star image.”

You groan, hiding your face in Brian’s shoulder as you two keep walking.

You meet up with Jeordie and Pogo in front of the candy shop, Brian having shoved the strip down his back pocket. Jeordie has a bag full of sweets.

“What did you get?” you ask, burrowing inside it. He hands you some laffy taffy.

“I know you like this stuff.”

“Jeord! I absolutely love you!”

“I know.” He grins. “Hehe, Star Wars.”

Just then, a big, hairy motherfucker of a security guard approaches you four quickly. He’s an imposing figure, even on your 6'1 boyfriend.

“I promise I paid for all these gummy worms,” Jeordie begins to tell him, but he looks at you and Brian.

“You the kids from the photo booth?”

You’re too shocked to speak, so Brian, ever the antagonist, nods, sizing him up. “Yeah. Is there a problem?”

“You’re going to have to come with me,” the portly guard says sternly, and Brian shoves him off.

“Like hell, buddy." 

The guard starts to take something out of the back of his belt, so before either of you can find out what, you stop him.

"Wait! Wait, it’s okay. We’ll go.” You lean in to Brian pleadingly. “The most he can do is give us a warning. Don’t get your show banned here over some stupid, bloated mall guy with a bone to pick.”

“Fine." You and Brian turn, noticing Jeordie and Pogo had fled the scene. "Great friends,” Brian mutters, and the two of you start walking.

The guard leads you into a dark, grimy room down some steps under the mall’s CVS, where you see a bunch of security camera feeds, and… your topless photos displayed on one of them. It smells strange down here, like spoiled chicken and vaseline. The guard sits down.

“So. You think creating pornography in public is funny, do you?”

Brian lets loose a stream of vitriol you knew had been simmering. “I do. In fact, I think it’s the most goddamn hilarious thing I’ve ever done, you stuffy old dickhead!”

“Brian…”

“You wouldn’t know much about that though, since you’re probably so miserable working overtime for a mall who sees the local crackhead walk through maybe once every month or so and that’s it–”

_“Brian.”_

“–Getting paid to sit behind a desk in the dark, eat donuts and creep on people like a glorified cam-stalker–”

“Brian!”

“I bet you liked looking at my girlfriend’s tits, huh? You like em, you fucking pervert? Why don’t you–”

The guard finally has enough, and gets up out of his chair, walking behind Brian and tying a gag around his mouth. You go to stop him, but he grabs some duct tape, and sits you down, tying your wrists behind the chair. He does the same to Brian, restraining him. Shaking in fear, you sit still, paralyzed, as the guard sits back down in front of you two.

“You kids now and your alternative lifestyles. Think that acting outlandish and wearing black, Satanic clothing that never would’ve flown in my day is the way to give us civilized folk here in this good, god fearing little town the middle finger, huh?”

He sneers down at your leather miniskirt, and then to Brian’s thick platform boots, looking him up and down. He’s not really helping disprove the man’s point about outlandish clothes, with his lipstick and shaved eyebrows. You think you see Brian fiddle with something in his back pocket, but your attention is directed back to the guard.

“Performing sexual acts in my mall. You won’t get away with that.”

“What are you gonna do?” you whimper.

“Put on a little show of my own,” he starts to smile sadistically. You start to feel cold all over. _He doesn’t mean…_

Brian’s eyes close. Of course the two of you had found the Buffalo Bill of mall cops. Fucking lucky. Well. It’d be a story for the show.

The man sits back. “Smile.”

Brian watches the guy closely. “You touch her…” your boyfriend warns. You struggle to pull your restraints free.

“Smile for me,” the guard repeats, growing impatient.

You swallow. “Just let us go. We’re really sorry about the photos!”

He finally stands up, cracking a fist. “Go on smile, you cunt!”

Brian jumps up, and though his wrists are still bound like yours, he turns around to grab you, pulling you both to the door. He spits the gag out. “Run.”

The two of you dash out the side entrance to the mall, and keep running until you can’t hear the guard yelling anymore.

Jeordie and Pogo come out of the woodwork, quickly gathering around you.

“Fuckin’ redneck tyrant!” Brian shouts back, grabbing and tossing Jeordie’s milkshake at the building. Jeordie stares in longing at the destroyed strawberry goop on the ground, debating if the 5 second rule worked for drinks too. Pogo takes a switchblade out to cut you two loose.

“I got the perfect sound bites on tape we can sample for Cake and Sodomy, of you moaning like a whore and that guy being a general asshole,” Brian tells you, and you roll your eyes.

“After nearly being killed by a psychotic mall cop, that’s all you have to say? Typical.”

“What did you guys even do?!” Jeordie asks.

You dig out the photo strip from Brian’s back pocket, and pass it to the other guys. Pogo nods, stroking his goatee like a critic.

“That’s art.”


	17. (Don’t) Tell Me What To Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s one thing to have a boyfriend. It’s another to have a daddy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Era: Born Villain.
> 
> Half based on that one scene from The Heart Is Deceitful and half on the song 'Bad Girl' that he did with Avril.

The premiere is a celebration of the new album, Born Villain, so of course you had gone along. You and Jeordie had been dating since 2000 when you had been a catering server at a Holy Wood wrap party. Along with that, you had become friends with a few of the other band members of Marilyn Manson, and when Jeordie had split with them a few years later, you had been his personal confessional for all his troubles, vendettas and regrets. Now that he was back with Manson, it was good to see everyone again… but an old secret had been brought to the surface again.

Jeordie could be a jealous person sometimes, especially when it comes to you. A few spats you had had back when you first met were over the perceived attention you were giving to his friends, or one friend in particular… Brian.

Brian had noticed your attention as well, but had always kept his distance. He was a shit disturber by nature, but Jeordie was his best friend, and he didn’t want to wreck that too. Of course, he had every opportunity to get back at him for leaving the band in 2003 by having revenge sex with you… but neither of you were about to go there during such a vulnerable time. 

Now that everyone was back together, you and Manson had been in closer quarters, and your old feelings for him had come back. This evening at the premiere, you had caught him multiple times looking your way from under those blackout sunglasses, which was most likely due in part to your dress. You had a pretty little white gown on, one that exposed the side of your body all the way down to your thigh in a transparent sheen. He had brought the performance artist [Narcissister ](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.google.com%2Furl%3Fsa%3Di%26url%3Dhttp%253A%252F%252Fwww.narcissister.com%252Fmariyln-manson%26psig%3DAOvVaw1tqxxOyja1BMoRplCwiiax%26ust%3D1576888700002000%26source%3Dimages%26cd%3Dvfe%26ved%3D0CAIQjRxqFwoTCKjQq6n-wuYCFQAAAAAdAAAAABAD&t=N2NjNDE5OWJkYjQ1ZGVkZGYxMWE1YWMwODcxZWMwNWU5ZmUyZjMxNSxsYkhibWZxOA%3D%3D&b=t%3ARjEQbs4yaJlyb9AapoSzZw&p=https%3A%2F%2Fheadoverhiddles.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F189787944673%2Fdont-tell-me-what-to-do-marilyn-manson-x&m=1)as his ‘date’ to the launch party, as he currently wasn’t seeing anybody. 

“Enjoying yourself?” Jeordie squeezes your hand. You smile at him, squeezing back.

“Mhmm. You?”

“Yeah. It’s great. You look great.”

“Hello children,” Manson comes behind you two, grabbing the both of your shoulders, “This is fun, isn’t it?” You can hear the sarcasm in his voice.

“Nothing is fun for you unless it involves urinating on someone’s breasts,” Jeordie sighs, sipping on his soda water. Manson puts a hand on his chest, feigning hurt.

“Lest we forget, it was the keyboardist, pianist, penis, dare not speak his wicked name, who pissed on the deaf girl, not me.”

“No, you just watched.”

“So did you,” Manson kisses him on the cheek, and shoots you a look. “Nice dress, hun." 

You heat up a little from the pet name. "Thanks, Manson. You’re looking good too." 

"Yeah, I know." 

You smirk at him, but he ducks his head, heading off to bother someone else. Jeordie watches you watch him, and nudges your wrist with his pinkie.

"Babe. Can I talk to you for a sec?”

You tuck your hair behind your ear, heartbeat picking up. “Of course." 

You two go off to a quiet hallway, and he takes a deep breath. "Do you wanna fuck him?”

You cough. “What?”

“Do you wanna fuck Manson? Please, just tell me." 

"I…” you blink. 

“Cause… I’ve thought about it. It’s… kinda hot if you do.”

You don’t think you’re hearing him right. “What!?”

“I mean, I’ve sucked him off before, he’s got a nice dick. He’s good in bed, I will say!”

“Are you drunk?” You raise an eyebrow at your sworn sober boyfriend, who just shakes his head.

“He wants to fuck you. He told me. One night…” he rubs the back of his neck, looking down, “One night me and him were really high. It was years ago, back before I left, back when we were going really hard. He told me he wanted to…” Jeordie laughs bashfully. “Well. He told me a lot of things.”

“What did he tell you?” you breathe, beginning to feel yourself get wet.

“He said you’d make a good little daddy’s girl.” Jeordie clears his throat. “We almost asked you for a threesome that night, but… we just ended up puking repeatedly and sleeping it off for 36 hours. We never talked about it again.”

You’re shocked. “So… you got mad at me for nothing when he would look at me back then?”

“(y/n), I was…” he sighs, “I was fucked up. I really am sorry for the way I acted back then. I was a jealous asshole. I blamed you for things I should’ve blamed myself for. Addiction played a big part in my behavior, and I’m glad I sorted that out. But…” he bumps his shoulder against yours affectionately, “In full sobriety, I can truthfully tell you, I don’t mind if you sleep with him tonight. Just tell me about it tomorrow while I jerk off, kay?" 

You’re dumbfounded. You’re not about to kink-shame him, especially when given such an opportunity. “Okay.”

He starts to smile. "And… don’t tell him I’m okay with it. I wanna see what he does, yeah?”

Your mind starts to work through this. Your boyfriend had just given you clearance to seduce his best friend, someone you had wanted to fuck for years.

The two of you re-enter the party, and see that Manson is giving some kind of speech about the album and what his vision for it was. As he talks about his big comeback, you tease your bottom lip between your teeth. He looks so good up there, all swagger, self confidence and style. 

So, he thought you’d be a good little girl for him? Maybe you would. But you could also be a brat.

You and Jeordie had made arrangements to sleep over at Manson’s place, since it’s closer than your loft. After the premiere, the chauffeur comes to pick you up, and the four of you get in the back seat. Narcissister is dropped off before you get up to the hills, then after ten more minutes, you make it home.

—

It’s 12:30 in the morning.

Jeordie has gone upstairs to bed, and taken sleeping pills. You had discovered Marilyn, makeup smudged but left on, reading in his library in socks and his undone dress shirt, tie slung loose around his neck. He looks properly undone, but you’d like him even more so.

You saunter over to the chair opposite him, sitting down. When he looks up, you part your legs slightly. You’re in a little satin white nightgown.

“(y/n),” he says. You can tell he’s fighting not to look you up and down. “I thought you went to bed with Jeordie.”

“No,” you murmur, biting your finger, “I’m up past my bedtime.”

He glances up, hesitates, then goes back to his book. “My bedtime is 5 AM, so I’m good for a while.”

You start to suck on one of your fingers. “My rules are set for a reason. I wish Jeordie would punish me.”

Manson sets his book in his lap, frowning. “What?” 

“For staying up past my bedtime,” you raise your eyebrows innocently, “I deserve to be punished… don’t I?” 

He chuckles slightly, unsure of what you’re insinuating. “I mean. He’s not your dad, he can’t tell you what to do. Unless… I don’t know, maybe he can, maybe he likes being the controlling prick that he used to be, I have no idea.”

“You’re right, though,” you murmur, shifting in the seat to pull your legs behind you, “He’s _not _my dad. He’s not my daddy either… but you could be.”

He flips a page. “Sweetheart, I don’t think you’d want me for a daddy.” 

“And why not?” 

“Cause that ass would be whipped every night.” You shudder. “Of course, you’ve got a boyfriend. And he’s my friend. So, behave. No whipping for you, young lady.” He’s teasing, but you can sense what lies beneath those words. 

You start to suck on your index finger, draping yourself over the arm of the chair. Your leg is exposed as the nightie hikes up. “You know… I think of you.”

He keeps reading. “Mhmm." 

"I do,” you nod, playing with the short hem of your tiny white panties. “When I touch myself.”

He visibly startles at this, but regains his posture. You don’t give up that easy.

“All I think about is you, daddy. I want you to finger me. I want you to slide your big, hard cock inside me and sink it in til I cry. I look so pretty when I cry, daddy.”

He readjusts himself in his seat. Doesn’t look up. You switch tactics, sniffing.

“Don’t…” you twirl in your little fluffy lingerie, “Don’t you think I’m pretty, daddy?”

Reluctantly, he glances up at you, his eyes ever so slightly foraying into forbidden territory. You graze your index finger along the entrance of your mouth, dipping it between your plump lips.

“What’s gotten into you?” he murmurs weakly, an uncharacteristically nervous laugh coming out.

“You, I hope,” you whisper, then cover your mouth with a giggle. “Oh. That was a bad thing to say, wasn’t it, daddy? Very…. _very _bad.” You take a few steps over, and before he can protest too hard, you slide into his lap, straddling the tall man you’d known for so many years.

“Yeah,” he whispers, eye level with your tits. “Pretty bad, considering you’re my best friend’s girl.”

“It’s okay. You can look.” You tilt his head back down, licking your lips, and his Adams Apple bobs as he swallows what feels like sandpaper.

“(y/n), what’s gotten into you?” he repeats, and you bite your lip, causing it to swell.

“I just want to…” you lean in close to his ear, “_Need _to, get fucked.” You moan softly, pressing your cheek to his shoulder and pouting up. “I said another bad word, daddy. Don’t you wanna punish your girl?” He swallows again. He doesn’t know what to do now, just hold you there in his lap, will himself not to touch anything that would incite what you’re trying to incite.

“Well… where’s Jeordie? I’m sure he–”

“Please punish me,” you breathe, blinking at him in innocence as you shift your breasts closer to his face. “God, I’m so wet. Your babygirl needs you." 

He finally gives in, playing your little game. "I got lots more to worry about than naughty little girls.” His stern eyes turn downward, and he lifts his chin with a domineering glare. “Unless it’s real worth my while to teach her a lesson.”

“Oh. I’ll make it worth your while,” you nod, heartbeat increasing. “As long as you promise to take care of me. Show me…” you walk your fingers up his chest, “Show me, daddy, who’s really in charge?” You take his hand, sucking one of his fingers until it hits the back of your throat. You swirl your tongue around it as he watches you silently, and you pop off, dragging his hand to your neck and closing it. “Choke me.” 

His jaw clenches. “Don’t tell me what to do.” 

You feel a rush of gratification. You always knew he was a natural dom. 

You drop a hand on top of his crotch, and he cranes his neck, smile fading. His eyes drift up to meet yours finally as you start to massage his length in his pants. He gets hard in record time. You already feel him fill out his pants, and giggle. 

“What do we have here, hmm?”

“The product of those. They should be registered as lethal weapons,” he looks down into your cleavage, licking his lips.

“They’re all yours to touch. When it comes to me, you know you can have everything you want.”

He brings his fingers down, the tips of them tracing the V of your heat, the ghost of his touch sending small sparks of arousal through you.

“Is this what you wanted me to do?” he mumbles, tipping your chin up to hold, “Hmmm? Bad little girl?” You can’t speak– you can only nod, eyelids fluttering. “Go on, say something for me, baby.”

“Yes, daddy. That’s what I want.”

“Don’t you think that’s fuckin’ slutty? Little girls who have boyfriends shouldn’t be acting like tramps around their partner’s friend… tempting ‘em like this, being a little cocktease. Is that what you are? Daddy’s little cocktease?”

“Yeah,” you squirm, “But I always put out.”

“Fuck. You know I’m weak for a touch like yours." 

"Please. I need it,” you moan. 

“Yeah. I can tell. I guess one cock just isn’t enough for a fucking whore like you, is it?" 

"No,” you smirk.

“No. That pussy needs filling all night long.”

“Yeah.”

“Little cockslut.”

“Mmm,” you whine, squirming again. You’ve drenched your panties by now, no doubt. “Daddy, you like little tramps,” you breathe, mouthing wet kisses up his neck. “I know you do.” You palm the heel of your hand against his dick, and in long strokes, you get him to the point where he can’t ignore his erection any longer, no matter what he does with it.

“Alright,” he breathes, your lips inches from his, “Alright, this has gone far enough." 

"But daddy,” you pout, starting to drag yourself up and down his thigh, “I’m so wet. I’m so, so horny for you. All I need is to be filled.” Your left satin strap falls down your arm. “Fuck me hard, pound me ‘til I can’t walk.” Your voice cracks on the last word, as your breasts graze his chest.

He lets out a small grunt, and brushes a strand of hair from your face, giving you a disapproving stare.

“Why’s your voice all fucked up?“ 

"I lost it last night, screaming your name when Jeordie wasn’t home.”

“God, you’re gonna kill me,” he groans, and settles his lips into a firm line. “Look. First thing’s first. Daddy doesn’t like it when you demand things. You gotta ask nicely.”

“I’m sorry,” you bite your lip, “Would you like me to say please?” 

“Always say please, babydoll. It’s just polite. Especially when asking for a good fuck.” 

“Would you be more inclined to say yes, if I did?” you smile, moving in. 

He leans back, back, as you move your mouth dangerously close to his. His hips lift a little, and he exposes his neck as you rub him perfectly, deliberately. “Yeah,” he breathes. Right before you can press your lips to his, you reach behind him, and grab his captain hat that he uses on stage off a table. You give a playful salute, and he scoffs, body relaxing a little bit. You take the hat off, placing it on his head, and sigh. 

"You look so sexy,” you say, “A gentleman in a hat.” You sound out your words slowly, almost moaning them out as you patter your fingers around and twirl his black shards of hair. 

His expression is dark. "You know I’m not a gentleman.“ 

"Yeah? Prove it.” A flash of defiance in your eyes challenges him. His hands grip your hips as you undo his pants, pull your panties aside, and lift up. In a rush, you’re sitting on his cock, both of you groaning at the contact. 

“That’s good,” you whisper. 

“Yeah,” he growls, “You’re my little slut, aren’t you?”

“Mhm.”

“Daddy’s filthy little slut." 

"Yeah daddy, give it to me.” You wrap your arms around his neck as he fucks you in his lap. He circles your clit, making you mewl. 

“Daddy’s bad little girl. Fuckin’ bad girl. You like getting fucked, huh? You like taking cock like this?”

“I do, I love it…”

“Tell me how much you love it.” He nudges you up out of his lap. You protest, and his nostrils flare at your disobedience. “Ah ah. What did I say?” 

“Sorry,” you whisper, getting on your hands and knees on the floor. He moans, so low in his throat it sounds like a deep rumble, and pushes back in from behind, sinking deep and filling you perfectly. 

“I love feeling you inside me,” you moan, “Harder, daddy, harder…” 

“You sure love running your mouth. Little girls need to learn their place,” he growls, reaching around to grab your neck. 

“Teach me, give it to me,” you gasp, pushing back into his thrusting. His jaw clenches, powerful thrusts rocking you forward and back.

“You’re a naughty little bitch. Mine, mine, _miiiine_.” He leaves little bites up between your shoulder blades. 

“I’m close.”

“So’s daddy. Come on, sweetheart, I know you can do it. Cum for me, cum on daddy’s big cock.” 

“Fuck, ’m so bad,” you moan, climax threatening to tip as his balls slap against your ass.

“_So _bad.”

“Yeah…”

“Bad, bad–” he gasps, hips stuttering as he finally cums, “Ba-ad girl…”

Letting out a dirty sigh of contentment, you remove your fingernails from his skin with a fond scratch down his back all the way to his ass. He lets you go, the sudden removal of his fingers a reminder that the indents will be replaced by bruises tomorrow morning.

He slumps against your back, and you stretch like a cat, moaning.

“Fuck. Jeordie,” he sighs, running a hand through his hair, “We didn’t even use a condom. Fuck, he’s gonna know. He’s gonna quit the band again, shit dammit–” 

“Jeordie knows,” you smirk, swinging your legs back and forth from your position on your stomach. 

“What?”

“He said it was okay. He just wanted you to think we were cheating.”

“Right,” Manson mutters.

“I’d be grateful if I were you,” you grin, crawling up to him and resting on his knees. “You got to feel what it’s like to be inside me.”

“That’s true, babygirl,” he says, stroking your chin. “Better than I imagined. And boy, did I imagine it.”

“Ditto.”

—

The next morning (afternoon) when everyone makes their way out of bed, you all congregate in Manson’s kitchen for whatever food hasn’t gone bad in his fridge. 

“Morning, Brian. Did you have fun fucking my girlfriend?” Jeordie asks, sipping some coffee.

“Mhm. Mhm.” He nods, taking some eggs out, “You’ve got a little vixen on your hands there.” He frowns at the broken eggshells he just dropped into his pan. 

“I know.” 

“You know, I’m just as irresistible as she is. She’s gonna want me again.” 

“I figured. Everything always backfires on me, it’s just my life.”

You come sauntering in, in panties and the little nightgown. Both men turn to look at you. Jeordie smiles, and Manson bites his lip. You blush under their attention. “Morning.”

Manson smirks. “Hey. Good idea last night sweetheart, wearing white. That way, Jeordie can’t see the semen stains I got all over you.”

You giggle, and your boyfriend puts his head in his hands. 


	18. Hide Your Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You can throw your rock and hide your hand, working in the dark against your fellow man. As sure as god made black and white, what’s done in the dark will be brought to the light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Era: Current, God's Gonna Cut You Down video

His eyes open.

The lids crack with falling dust as he attempts to move his head, but notices white plastic in his peripherals. Confirming his suspicions, he finds his limbs packed too tight to move as well. Flexing the muscles in his shoulders and making fists, he begins to rock, the necessary evil of desert dirt filling his mouth as he cracks his confines. Tattooed fingers break ground, and blunt fingernails pick their way out of the makedo grave.

Thankfully the coward who buried him didn’t do a very good job. Then again, not many people expect a dead man to emerge from the dirt, especially when they can’t see past the ends of their noses. A reanimated corpse would have given whatever bastard who did this a heart attack; then he’d be the one holding the shovel.

Shaking the dry dirt from his black hair, he tries to remember why he was buried in the first place. It’s as if he’s half brain dead– or half his brain hasn’t been awakened yet. Every time he tries to think of his past, it’s as if a mental dam would go up, blocking him access. But it isn’t mechanical– no, he is the opposite of mechanical. He is biodegradable, or he should have been. The only undeniable clarity in his mind is one single fact: he should be dead, and he should’ve stayed dead.

Seeing as it isn’t really an option to get back in the hole and cover himself up again, he starts walking. He has hopes that this was some kind of underworldly mirage in a sea of punishment, that he’d wake up and see some nightmare only he would be capable of dreaming up. But thus far, the devil wasn’t popping up to laugh in his face, so he supposed he could stop being so cynical.

Once bitten, twice shy.

Why the fuck is that? Who had done the proverbial biting? What had happened, and how had he awakened? He lets out a long sigh, the air in his lungs brittle and unnatural. What he does remember of his life before, is there was an element of relief found in simple country indulgence. Whoever he is, he recalls the taste of whiskey sour and the satisfying singe of burning herb on his tongue, filling his mouth, filling his dry lungs.

He has to find a bar.

-

You feel like the ice box in front of the motel you passed on the highway: melting slowly in the desert heat.

A single coin, older than three of your lifetimes, tumbles down your fingers like a staircase, swiped up into your palm and placed again at the top. The pure silver glints under the bar lights, and your drink is placed in front of you.

“On the house,” the bearded man, who was as close to a modern day cowboy as he could get, smiles at you. You tip your wide brimmed hat. Nobody questioned why you were wearing a hat and dark glasses inside, or why you had taken the very end of the bar, farthest away from everyone. Southwestern places like this get people from all walks of life passing through, and people, in general, were all just as fundamentally odd as they pretend not to be.

Finally placing the coin heads up on the cracked wooden table, you swirl your drink and observe.

Something had drawn you to this town. Last time you had contacted the other world, they had directed you here, and though you hadn’t studied the occult for long, you understood that that many signs, from the living world or otherwise, meant something catastrophic had just happened out here in the desert. You’d wait it out, and see if whatever it was would come to you first. You can already feel it, whatever it is– you can feel the energy, and it makes you shiver. Fermented hatred, violent impulse, and bitter restlessness buzz beneath your skin, and you’re dying to figure out where– or who– this bad mix of hoodoo is coming from.

-

A white pickup truck, damaged by some kind of weather, sits abandoned on the side of the road. He looks around, and as he suspected, there isn’t another soul as far as the eye can see. That, by his standards, makes this his pickup truck.

As if a gift from god, the keys are still in the ignition, and he doesn’t have time to worry about the two bloody bullet holes in the seat. He drives out of there in a cloud of dust, hoping for civilization.

Civilization, and people.

He suddenly swerves violently, eyes snapping shut.

_He had a wife. She looked somewhat like him, only more feminine. Her name was Marilyn._

_He wore a hat. He had long hair back then, hair that would get tugged in moments of passion and brushed in moments of vulnerability. Soft hands interrupted rivulets of warm water cascading down his back as he sat under a showerhead and let tears fall._

_He lived in a small community. A cult created out of fear. A pointing finger, blindfolded shot caller._

_He had been a scapegoat._

_Bare chest, open palms, and a deep, aching pain, repetitive, blood running down into his eyes, until…_

Those eyes snap open, and he swerves back onto the road. Narrowly missing a white painted cross, he looks back to see a graveyard.

“Marilyn,” he says to himself. His voice sounds like paper ripping, and he coughs, growling a little until his throat begins to feel normal again. He still doesn’t remember what they called him, or who he properly was… his wife wouldn’t be needing her name anymore, since she must be long dead; he decided it suited him.

-

The sun is just going down over the Mojave hills as you finger the black crystals dangling between your breasts. Whatever it is, it’s taking its time.

Licking a small sheet of rolling paper, you fill it with some of your own homegrown bud, and strike a match off your boot.

“You waiting for someone?” the bearded cowboy asks you, and you recognize the charming glint in his eye as someone who’s barking up the wrong tree.

“I don’t know yet,” you reply honestly, and leave it at that. The man presses.

“What do you mean? You’ve been sitting here all day.” He leans in. “My name’s Shooter. What’s yours?”

“Call me Clint Eastwood, cause I’m the Woman With No Name,” you answer drily.

“Hey now…” Shooter leans in, “It would just break my heart if a pretty little lady like you got stood up… left lonely for the night.”

You meet his gaze. “I’m far from lonely. And the night is far from over.”

Just then, a breeze blows the door open, and someone walks in. It’s a man in a white wife beater and a plaid button up over it, jet black hair covered in dust and dirt. His eyes are dark, just like the rest of his aura, and you’re drawn to him. This is him. This is the feeling.

He sits next to you at the bar, but doesn’t look over immediately. First, he checks the place out… then his eyes land on you.

“Thirsty?” he asks. You nod, smiling.

The twitch of his lips carve a mysterious half smile in his face as he lifts his fingers to catch the bartender’s attention. Not like he hadn’t already.

A drink is placed in front of you, not on the house as it was when you were “lonely and pretty”. The man takes his own glass of dark amber liquid. Nursing his own poison and seeming to revel in it, he lifts it to his lips. You notice the alchemical symbols tattooed onto his fingers. 

“Marilyn,” he glances up, catching a newspaper clipping of the old Tate murders glued to the wall, “-Manson.”

“Manson,” you nod, “I’m (y/n) (y/l/n).”

“Pretty name.” You wait for the _“for a pretty girl”,_ but that part never comes. You tilt your head, intrigued.

“Where are you from?”

He gives a mirthless chuckle, voice still caked with dust and the unfortunate secret that he had just freed himself from his own grave. “I have no goddamn idea where I’m from.”

Now you’re very interested. “You have amnesia or something?”

He considers this. “Maybe. I just woke up this morning in a body bag out in the middle of devil’s asshole, Nevada.”

“Sounds like someone tried to kill you,” you say softly, heartbeat picking up. He drains his glass, pushing it forward for another.

“Mhm. The strange part is, it feels like they succeeded.” The crystals hanging around your neck begin to warm against your chest, and you look down. He spots your dwindling joint in the nearby ashtray, and sees that half of it is ash now. “If you’re not gonna finish that, hun,” he nods to it. You gesture to it for him to take. He does, studies you, and puts it to his lips. His eyes squint through the haze, and his mouth opens in an ‘o’ to free the smoke. You feel a different sort of warmth fill you.

“You live here?” he asks.

“No.”

“Why you here?”

“I felt like I should be.”

He looks around slowly. “Sure. This is really the place to be, huh?” A fly lands on your glass, and a bearded guy burps over by the cobwebbed jukebox. You look down, smiling.

“I have my reasons.”

He watches how your lips graze the mouth of the glass, leaving a faint red imprint. He feels something rouse inside of him. Now that drinking’s out of the way, he’s suddenly reminded of another need. But he’s not certain how everything’s working just yet… best to make sure. Shooter fills up Manson’s glass again, turned away but intent on eavesdropping.

Manson lifts it to his lips, drinking the Tennessee Whiskey down like it’s water from a mirage. Finally, he decides he can trust you.

“I have something inside of me,” he murmurs. You rest your elbow on the bar.

“Like what?”

“A sort of intuition. There’s somebody I need to kill. Lots of people." 

"I hope you don’t mean everyone in this bar,” you joke.

He smiles, looking down. “Wouldn’t kill you. And that guy over there by the jukebox looks like he’s on a mission from God to drink the most whiskey any man’s ever drunk, and I’m not about to stop him on his righteous path.”

You laugh. “I think you’re well on your way to getting there first.”

He looks back down to his now emptied glass. “That’s another thing. I can’t even feel the effects.” He cocks his head. “Fuckin’ awful. That was the best part about living.”

“Was?” you ask in amusement.

“I’m telling you. I can’t be alive. Something brought me back, and it’s not for good.”

“That’s it,” Shooter says, loading a rifle from behind the bar and pointing it at Manson. “You two take your devilspeak and you get the hell outta here before I blow you away.” Manson lifts his eyes to Shooter, taking in the man’s much smaller form. He stands, and it all happens in a blur. You snatch the rifle in what can only be described as symbiotic intuition on both your parts, and Manson rushes Shooter, grabbing him by the vest and pulling him over the bar.

“M-Mister I’m–” the bartender begins to say, but Manson impales him with a sickening crack on the deer antlers hanging on the wall below the Budweiser sign.

You pass Manson the rifle, watching the drunk in the corner try and decipher what just happened. He’s no threat. Manson slings the rifle over his shoulder, and grabs the bottle from the other side of the bar, drinking from it. He passes it to you, where you’re standing, leaning with your back against the bar. You take the bottle, swirling your tongue around the top, before drinking. You watch the body drip blood from where it’s hanging. He watches you.

As he stares at your lips, the need building inside of him is almost undeterrable. He remembers what it was like before, to be deep inside a woman, to get everything he can take from a willing, welcoming girl.

“What makes you tick?” he murmurs.

You exhale. “I’m certain you could find out.”

He drives toward the address of the motel you had given him, shotgun in the backseat for safe keeping, and parks the truck in the front. You unlock the door, ignoring the strange look from the motel owner, and let Manson in. He sits down on the edge of the bed, and you take your jacket off. Sensing how he reacts to that, you pause, and begin to unbutton your shirt. You turn to him, and take the rest of your top off. 

Manson stares, watching every movement closely. You take off your shorts slowly, and your panties with it. Soon, you’re fully naked, and his breathing has increased. He’s aroused even more when you walk toward and get in his lap on the edge of the bed, breasts pressed against his chest. 

He brings his hands up to feel your back, and smooths them all the way down to your ass. You straddle him, helping him take his shirt off. You trace his mosaic of tattoos with your fingertips, and cup his cheeks, pressing your lips to his. They’re dry, cracked, but you don’t care, and neither does he. He kisses back, and a surge of violent desire prompts him to pick you up, clearing everything off the table and sitting you there. You help him work at his pants, and he finally gets them down just enough to lay you on your back on the table and push into you.

You groan, reaching down to help yourself along. He takes a black rosary hanging from the TV set, and ties your hands together with it, keeping them above your head. You whine as he fucks into you, moans increasing as he touches your clit. He uses one hand to massage your breasts, giving attention to both, and his hips stutter. 

“It’s… okay,” you breathe out, “You can…”

He grunts, but refuses to cum before you, no matter how long it’s been. He picks you up and moves you to the bed, lying you on your back. Your hands fist the sheets as his lips move down your body, pressing kisses down your chest, between your breasts, to your stomach, sucking hickies down your inner thighs, licking down your legs to your feet. Then he finally kisses back up to your pussy, watching the wetness leak to the mattress.

“I want to hear you,” he rasps, and you sigh, appreciative noises building as he darts his tongue out to make small circles around your clit.

“Oh,” you whisper, “_Oh _yeah.”

“Louder,” he growls, licking faster.

“Please, please!” you whine, “Right there!”

You cry out loudly as he brings you to the edge of your peak, but he disappears from between your legs before you can cum. Disoriented, you wiggle your hips, but look up to find him standing at the foot of the bed. He tugs you by your ankles down to where he is, and lifts you up. You arch your back in relief as he slides his cock back into you, like it’s your lifeline. That’s all it takes for you to come undone, crying out his name as you cum on his cock. 

“Baby, baby… so good,” he grumbles, drawing out almost all the way and slamming back in deep. He keeps up his bruising, thorough pace until he too becomes erratic, leaning his head back and groaning your name. You feel him finish inside you, and sigh contentedly, spreading your arms out. 

He drops your legs, and you crawl back up to the pillows. He lays down on the other side of the single bed, letting you cuddle into his space. Your head rests on Manson’s chest, as you close your eyes and search for the stranger’s heartbeat. 

You’re awakened from your dreamlike state as you notice he doesn’t have one.

–

It’s 3 am. Hours have gone by, and he can’t sleep.

He realizes, hands behind his head, that nobody who killed him is still around. They all must have died years ago, that he would be chasing ghosts. That’s just what he was… a ghost. Or a demon. Maybe he was the devil himself. Sooner or later, he knew that the darkness would return. It came for them, it would come for him. 

He turns to look down at your sleeping, naked form, and strokes you. You look like an angel, sleeping on a halo of the hair spread out over his chest. He defiled you last night, spread his darkness over you. 

Maybe he wasn’t a scapegoat after all. Maybe he deserved everything he got. Maybe he wasn’t an avenging angel. Maybe he was chaos on earth, brought back for a short time. But his feelings, his human urges were so real when he felt them raging through him. He felt like he needed to kill everyone who wronged him, but he didn’t know how to find them. So many unanswered questions, and the sun would rise on them all in a few hours.

The dim TV with the rosary draped over it glitches, and turns from snowy static to a black fuzz.

-

You wake up in the morning, and find that the spot next to you is empty. You expected that– the man was on a mission, but it was a nice detour. Still, you get up, and look out the motel window. 

That’s strange. His car is still there. You start to search the bed for your panties, but stop. There’s a strange dust left in his side of the bed, and a note on the bedside table. 

_You can run on for a long time, but sooner or later God’ll cut you down._

_\- The Stranger_


	19. Hey There, Demons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You, drummer for the Spooky Kids, aka the Dumbass Idiots, decide with the band to go ghost hunting in LA one night after a show. Bad idea for the most part, good idea for the sole reason of finally putting you and Manson together in a dark room. Feelings? What are those?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Era: Spooky Kids

“I don’t believe in ghosts.”

You toss a napkin at Brian. “Poser.” You’re all sitting in an airport, waiting for your flight from Jacksonville to Los Angeles for a show tonight.

He grins. “Nah. I’m just bullshitting, of course I do. I mean, I’ve never seen one, other than that whole Necronomicon thing when I was a kid, but half of me thinks that was from drinking bong water.” 

“Yeah. Well. Imagination is a beautiful thing." 

He licks his lips. "Especially when I’m jacking off.”

“Gross,” you mutter.

“That’s not what you said last night.”

“You wish,” you huff.

“Cool it you two, we all know you’re banging,” Pogo calls out, and starts making high pitched moaning noises. You (and everyone else in the band) looks at the keyboardist, wondering if it’d attract even more attention to tape his mouth shut. “Ah! Ah! Ah!”

Jeordie joins in. “Oh, god! Oh, Brian! Yes! What a big dick you have!”

“All the better to fuck you with,” Brian plays along. Jeordie climbs into Brian’s lap.

“Stop it, big boy, you’re turning me on!”

“I don’t sound like that,” you mutter.

“Ohhh yeeeeah,” Jeordie groans out a climax, and Daisy scoffs, slipping on his sunglasses to avoid the odd stares you’re getting.

“I’ll have what he’s having.”

“Unless… Brian is the one taking it,” Pogo muses, “That’s possible.” He drops his voice. “Mmmm. Bette, make me your bitch!”

“Yeah, I just love it when (y/n) gets the strap on out and destroys my ass,” Brian grumbles. You blush a little, but hide it under a laugh.

“Again. You wish.”

“Am I the only one who finds it very hard to believe (y/n) would put out for Bri?” Jeordie asks. It’s Brian’s turn to toss something at his best friend.

“We all know if she had good taste in men, she’d be fucking me already.”

You hold up three fingers. “Read between the lines.”

You and Brian had been skirting around one another since you had joined the band. You had known Jeordie since working at a crappy part time job at a used record shop with him, and had met the others when Brian had moved to Florida from Ohio, which was a few years ago. They had gotten this band together with another drummer who called himself Sarah Lee Lucas.

Recently, Sarah had left the band to pursue something else, and since banging on things with sticks isn’t too hard in your books, you convinced the Spooky Kids to hand you the drumsticks as the newly christened member, Bette Davis x Jeffery Dahmer: Bette Dahmer. It hadn’t been easy to convince them to let a girl in, since they’re all a bunch of juvenile assholes, but with Jeordie backing you, eventually they caved.

“Back to the matter at hand,” Brian says.

“Hand job,” Jeordie giggles, picking a scab off. He pouts as it bleeds.

“Later,” Brian quips, standing on a chair. You tug him down before a security guard can do it, and he falls on his ass. “Ow, fuck you.”

“That’s what anal feels like,” you say.

“You would know Bets, you probably take it up the ass from fifty guys at a time, ya fuckin whore,” Pogo laughs.

“Stephen, Jesus,” Daisy chuckles a little. Pogo has zero filter, and sometimes it’s refreshing, sometimes it’s annoying. You take your wad of gum out, balling it up, and use your hair elastic to slingshot it right in his face. The guy just picks it up and pops it in his mouth.

“Aw!”

“Ew!”

“You’re fucking disgusting, man.”

“Eat shit and die.” Pogo gives you all the finger, and Jeordie speaks up, laying his head in your lap and stretching out over the airport seats.

“Someone said something about ghosts. I like ghosts. _Space ghosts_.”

“Yes!” Brian brings it back. “Thank you Jeordie, back on track. We are all going ghost hunting tonight, after the show.”

“Who died and made you god?” Pogo asks.

“God did,” Brian snapped. “And when I’m god everyone dies.”

“That’s profound, poetry-man,” you smirk, crossing your arms, “Got any more emo shit to say before Scott gives every reason why we shouldn’t break into some haunted building tonight with video cameras?”

“Who has a video camera?” Jeordie asks, wide eyed, “I wanna see how big my dick looks on screen.”

“It looks just like your namesake,” Brian says. “Twiggy.” Jeordie looks crestfallen.

“It’s not that small,” you assure him, “It’s average, but not small.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I’d let you have a go, if you weren’t…” You smirk, alluding to the crush Jeordie had on another band member. He goes red.

“If Brian wasn’t already balls deep in that,” Pogo chides.

“I bet your dick looks like a pickle,” you shoot back, sticking your tongue out.

“Wanna check?”

“Okay,” Daisy blushes, standing up, “Just cause we’re a band, doesn’t mean we need to have an orgy.”

“What was the point, then?” you joke.

“Anyway. Like Bette said, I really don’t think we should be doing this tonight. If we get arrested for trespassing, what’ll that do to the band?”

Brian crosses his arms. “Well I’m the leader, and I say it’d give us a cool reputation!”

"Right. Members of the Marilyn Manson family get arrested for… what, looking for ghosts? What a hardcore group of people.”

"We can tell the press we killed someone. Besides, this is the type of shit we’re supposed to do as a metal band. We gotta do dumb, risky things that make us look like bonified Satanists. Otherwise we’re just posers like the rest of ‘em.”

“No, we just have to go on a couple benders in hotel rooms with some blow and a couple tatted up prostitutes, and we’ll fit in.”

“Look, we can do cocaine off girls’ tits and go ghost hunting and still be rock stars, so shut the fuck up Berkowitz, we’re doing it,” Brian says. Daisy puts his hands up, unwilling to argue with him any more than he already has. So, it’s settled.

You bump your foot against Brian’s, and he gives a lopsided smile, brushing the long black hair out of his face and bumping your foot back. Momentarily, his attention is diverted.

“Will someone go get Jeordie? He’s pissing in the water fountain.”

–

You look out at the crowd. This is a bigger audience than usual here in LA.

“Lots of motherfuckers came out to see us,” Bri comes by to whisper at you, parting his hair and making sure his lipstick is nice and smeared. You nod, and toss him his big floppy top hat. He sticks it on his head as you’re introduced.

“All the way from the South Florida music scene, we’ve got Marilyn Manson and the Spooky Kids!”

Jeordie starts the first song, Negative Three, off with a bassline intro, and you start the band off with a four count on your drumsticks, then hit the drums as Brian begins to wail into the mic.

_“Give me your blood, your teeth, your high school pictures…”_

You watch him, not skipping a beat on your rhythm. Daisy headbangs as you launch into the chorus, and Twiggy fiddles with his bass guitar across the stage, dressed in one of his ragdoll dresses. Pogo is to the right of you, hammering away at his keys and jolting around. You always have a good time performing with the guys, but Brian’s got your attention tonight.

He keeps looking back at you, for some reason.

You almost don’t realize the change in song and the fact that you’d been playing it, and nearly jump when Brian screams into the mic: _“I bring you!”_

You look away from his shirtless figure, and focus on putting on a good show with them as the crowd moshes in front of you.

–

After the show, everyone stops back at the motel quickly, drying off and getting changed. You all reconvene after getting into more comfortable clothes, avoid the small group of fans waiting to follow you, and get ready to leave.

“You were great tonight,” Brian says.

“Really? I nearly missed the beginning of Lunchbox,” you huff.

“Nah, I didn’t notice it. If I had, I would’ve yelled at you til you cried.” He gives a shit eating grin.

The Viper Room. The five of you stare at it. The sun has long since set after the show, and you’re in front of the LA nightclub with amateur ghost hunting equipment. (AKA, anything you could find at a five and dime store on the sunset strip this late at night).

“River Phoenix died here,” Jeordie mentions.

“And Johnny Depp owns the place,” Daisy remarks.

“I know him,” Brian says.

“River Phoenix?” Pogo asks, stroking his beard. “Yeah? You climb into his grave often?”

“Depp, I know Johnny Depp.”

“If you know Johnny Depp, then Twiggy’s Luke Skywalker,” Pogo scoffs.

“Like my father before me,” Twiggy mumbles. 

“No, I know him! I was an extra on his show, 21 Jump Street. He’s cool, we’re friends.”

“Suuuure.”

Even Jeordie snickers at that, after emerging from his Star Wars fantasy. “Fuck you guys,” Brian mutters, “If Johnny was here right now–”

“Oh, you’re on a first name basis, huh?”

“If Johnny was here right now, you fucking clown asshole, he’d say hi Brian, and tell you to go fuck yourself.”

“He’d say ‘hi Brian’?” you tease, and he smiles.

“Yes, he would. He’s nice.”

“Would he like me?”

“Anyone would like you.”

“Does he think this place is haunted?”

“I don’t know,” the singer hums, “I never asked.”

You pick the lock, all enter, and shut the door behind you. It’s pitch black, and frankly a little nerve-wracking.

“We shouldn’t be here,” Daisy sing songs.

“One more word out of you and we’re feeding you to the ghosts,” Pogo says.

“The same could be said for you,” you say to the keyboardist. He shoots a dirty look your way that you can’t see through the dark. “I did some reading,” you admit, and everyone turns to you. “Apparently there’s a body buried downstairs, in the crawlspace.”

“Johnny’s a killer,” Jeordie whispers in awe.

“That’s fucking rad,” Brian mutters, “I have even more respect for the guy now.”

“It wasn’t _Johnny_, don’t say that shit out loud in Hollywood or you’ll get sued,” you say, rolling your eyes. “So aside from the bones, the ghostly activity is downstairs in the basement, the VIP room, and by the bar.”

"I know where I’ll be,” Jeordie smiles, and walks over to the bar. “Pour me a stiff one River, and don’t spare the rum.”

Pogo sighs. “C'mon, Daisy. The odd couple are going down to the basement.”

“Uh, now I think I should be the one to stay at the bar.” Daisy shakes his head. “If Jeordie does, we’ll have smashed bottles and cop sirens.”

“Fine,” Jeordie complains, shoving his red and black dreads out of his face. 

“Whatever, dude. It’s just a bunch of bullshit anyway,” Pogo mutters, “It’s like Santa Clause, parents invent ghosts and all that shit to scare kids into behaving themselves, the ever present fascism of the oppressed American youth…” Jeordie follows the ranting keyboardist downstairs, shooting you a desperate look. You just smile, giving a little good luck wave. 

“That leaves you and me in the VIP room,” you say, turning to Brian.

“That it does,” he replies, licking his lip ring. “Just don’t try to hold my hand. That’s sick.”

“If you touch me, I’ll scream,” you retort, and walk ahead of him. He admires your ass with the flashlight, and you smile a little.

Downstairs in the basement, Pogo starts banging on the walls.

“Hello! My friends, my ghoulish friends! My… _ghoulfriends_, if you will. ANYONE WHO’S GOT THEIR BONES BURIED BACK HERE, MAKE A NOISE! Fart or something!” He swings his arms around. 

“Did Johnny Depp kill you?” Jeordie asks, eyes wide. He twitches at a car honk outside.

Pogo bounces up and down. “Come attack me, bones! Make me one of you! Come on, murder me and bury me, daddy! I’m into that kinky shit! I am _here_ for the taking!”

“That sounds a little forceful,” Jeordie whispers.

“On my part, or their part?” Silence.

“Good point.” 

They keep walking around, and Jeordie trips on something. Pogo keeps banging and yelling obnoxiously. “GOBLINS, GHOULIES, FROM LAST HALLOWEEN! AWAKEN THE SPIRITS WITH YOUR TAMBOR—hey Jeordie, what the fuck are you doing on the ground?”

“I just like the taste of carpet,” Jeordie retorts, sarcasm apparently not evident enough for Pogo to catch it. 

“Jesus, what are you on? I want some.” 

“Help me up?” 

“Yeah, yeah,” the mad clown mutters, and leans down. Jeordie takes his arm, and the two look at each other for a few seconds, the flashlight beneath them illuminating the specks of dust floating through the inch or so between their faces. “Uh…” Pogo whispers, deep voice grumbling.

“Yeah,” Jeordie swallows, and the two stand again, looking away from one another.

Upstairs, you and Brian enter the VIP room.

“Hey there demons, it’s me. Marilyn Manson,” he says, “This is my concubine, Bette Dahmer. Scare us.” 

You glare at him. “Actually, scare me. You can just kill him.” The two of you look around with the flashlight a bit, inspecting the dark wallpaper and decor.

“This is kinda spooky,” Brian admits.

“It’s nice,” you say, stroking the dust off a lamp, “Very gothic. I can see why movie stars like this place.”

“Yeah.” Brian turns the flashlight on and off, finally setting it on a small table and letting the beam keep the room dimly lit. “Lots of old Hollywood glamour. You’d fit right in.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, you’d look pretty in an old Marilyn Monroe dress. Or at least one of Jeordie’s.” 

“What if Marilyn Monroe came here?” you giggle.

“Hey, Mar! Thanks for the name!” Brian calls, “If we get rich and famous, we’ll give you the royalties!” You lounge out on one of the couches, and he eyes you. “You could be sitting on a ghost right now,” he says, “You could have a ghost inside you.”

“Mm?”

“You could be sitting right on his big ghost cock.”

“That’s hot.”

“You could have me inside you too, if you wanted.”

“Y’know, I think we’ve been on the road too long,” you laugh, “Pogo’s jokes are getting to you.”

“It’s not the jokes.”

“Yeah, well. If I’m starting to look hot to you, you must be delirious.”

“Nah… I really do think you’re hot, Bets.”

He sits next to you, and you look over at him. “Seriously?”

He ducks his head. “Yeah.”

“I… feel the same way. I mean, I was never ever gonna tell you, cause soon, with any luck, we’ll be big rock and roll stars, and you– well, you know how it works. You’ll have a million groupies, you’ll be drowning in free pussy.”

“Fuck the groupies. I want your pussy.”

You laugh. “You say that now.”

“Yeah, I do. Til someone better comes along, which I doubt will happen.” He lifts his eyes to meet yours. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you all night. It was weird onstage—usually I can hide it, but tonight… I don’t know. You sitting there, in that top, with your eyes… you were just…” He looks down again, his old shyness coming back. You don’t know what to say. You can only stare at his lips.

Over at the bar, Daisy sits patiently, watching the glass he’s set on a napkin. “Hello, ghosts. It’s me, Scott. You can call me Daisy if you like. If you can hear me, move the cup.”

He stares at the cup. The cup does not move.

Downstairs, Pogo and Twiggy are awkwardly trying to continue their ghost hunt without talking about the moment they just had.

“So, uh, so ghoulies. Where ya from?” Pogo shouts. “Is SATAN in the room with us? We are BIG FANS, sir.” Jeordie starts giggling about something. “What is it?!”

“I just heard a bang above us.”

“That means the demons have come out to play, Jeordie-boy!” Pogo cackles, hopping up on a booth seat and drumming the ceiling.

“No. It means Bette and Manson are screwing around,” Twigs laughs. Then his face gets dead serious. “What if, uh…”

“What if what?” Pogo glances over suspiciously.

“What if… they weren’t the only ones?”

You gasp, standing up and staring at the shattered lamp that had just fallen off the table. “Oh my god. That wasn’t me.”

“Wasn’t me.”

“They’re totally gonna think we’re screwing around up here.”

“Maybe we are,” Brian gets up too, tucking his hair behind his ear.

“Y-you wanna?” you back up. He nods, and falls on top of you on the other couch.

At the bar, Daisy sits, staring at the cup. He patters his fingers on his knees. “It’s okay, ghosts,” he says, smiling politely, “I can wait.”

He stares at it some more. The cup does not move.

In the room, you reach your hand up Brian’s back underneath his black t-shirt. “Fuck, I can’t believe we’re doing this.”

“Shut up and take my pants off.”

“Don’t tell me to shut up. Take your own pants o… ohhh, god, yeah.” Brian reaches up to massage your breasts, and you throw your head back, undoing his fly. “How long have you wanted to do this?”

“Since the day I walked into the dumb record shop and stole that David Bowie EP.”

“What the fuck?! I got fired for that!”

Downstairs, Pogo runs a hand over his smooth bald head. “I don’t know, man. This sounds very gay to me.”

“I mean,” Jeordie scuffs his shoe on the ground, “It doesn’t have to be. Or like, it could be. If you’re cool with that.”

“If I’m cool with being a homo?”

“…Yeah.”

Pogo looks up at Jeordie, and sighs. “For you?” He glances around the dark, creepy basement, then back to the bassist. “I could be cool with that.”

Daisy changes tactics. “Here. Don’t like moving cups? That’s okay, neither do I sometimes. Let’s try this again.” He smiles. “What’s your name?”

_“Oh, god… Brian!”_ you moan from the VIP room.

“Br… Brian!” Daisy says, excitedly, standing up. “You have the same name as my friend! Oh god… okay, um… how did you die, Brian?”

“_Get inside me_,” you groan, and Brian takes his boxers down, kissing you as he sinks into your tight heat. The two of you moan, base instincts taking over.

“In… inside you?!” Daisy repeats, eyes lighting up at the apparent paranormal activity he’s discovered. “Oh! You died from an overdose, just like River, didn’t you? You had too many narcotics_ inside you!_”

Downstairs, Pogo steps forward, and swallows. Jeordie closes his eyes, and waits. Suddenly, a car screeches through a red light outside, and Jeordie practically jumps into Pogo’s arms, forcing the two together at the lips. Pogo’s eyes fly open, and Jeordie’s close again, enjoying the kiss. They break away, and stare at one another. Pogo swears, and goes in for another kiss.

“Harder,” you whisper, wrapping your arms around the singer’s neck. He pushes his hips in faster.

“You like it rough, sweetheart?”

“Yeah Bri, I like it rough, _yeah_…”

He reaches down, finding your sweet spot. You arch into him, scratching your nails up his slender back. He keeps pounding into you, and grunts into your neck.

“Baby, baby, baby…”

“Do you have a message for me, or for any members of our band?” Daisy asks, and lowers his voice conspiratorially. “You know… some insider’s industry tips?” He winks.

_“Goood, you’re so fucking good!”_

Daisy raises his eyebrows. “I… well thank you! Thank you very much, we really try to reach people with our music.”

“What the fuck are you blabbering about?” Pogo mutters on the stairs, wiping Twiggy’s lipstick off his chin. Daisy beckons them over.

“Shhh! Watch this. I’m sorry I ever doubted you guys… the spirits are so active in this place! Forget making records. We could be mediums!” Jeordie joined Pogo over by the bar as Daisy went on. “Okay—if you’re here with us now, give us a sign.”

There’s a loud bang, followed by a creak and a faint gasp. Jeordie and Pogo look at one another, actually a little bit freaked out by the response. Then comes the “communication.”

_“I’m coming, oh– I’m coming!”_

“Where?!” Daisy cries, “Show yourself, come!” Pogo sighs, and Jeordie falls to the floor, laughing.

“I think they already did, pal.” The keyboardist raises his painted on eyebrows, and points to the VIP room. You stumble out, hair messed to hell, and Brian comes out behind you, buckling up his belt. Daisy stares at the two of you for the longest time, before getting up and walking toward the door.

The rest of you go to walk out, deeming the place a paranormal dud, when a gust of wind blows behind you. Brian’s about to turn around, accusing Jeordie of leaving a window open or something, but there’s nothing there. Then, everything happens at once. Daisy’s cup tips over the side of the counter and shatters. The door to the VIP room slams shut, and you all start to hear thumping footsteps coming up the stairs from the basement. 

You and Brian grab at each other, running out first while laughing. Pogo shoves Jeordie over and bolts out. A few seconds later, he runs back in, grabbing the bassist by the hand and dragging him out too. Daisy stays, getting out the video camera. Brian walks back in, guiding the guitarist out calmly, and closes the club’s front door with a click.

“Hey uh, Bri?” you say, taking his arm. He grunts, putting an arm around you. “Next time you see your friend Johnny Depp… maybe don’t mention that we fucked in his haunted club. Kay?”


	20. Crucifixion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and your boyfriend go see The Exorcist, and get some ideas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy Wood era.
> 
> Warning: Lotsa stuff in here that religious people will probably find offensive. You've been warned.

“You got your jacket?” you fuss, and Marilyn puts his hands on your shoulders, physically guiding you out the front door of your house.

“Yes. I have yours too. Can we leave now? We’ll be late for the movie.”

“No we won’t, we still have an hour.”

“You’ll forget something, and then we’ll have to come back for it.”

“I w–”

“Mark my words, I’ve been living with you for six months now, and six months is all it’s taken for me to get to know you and your habits completely.”

You had moved in with Marilyn after a year of dating, the two of you having met on the set of one of his music videos. You’d been a dancer, one who had gotten to work up close and personal with the rock star. You had quickly discovered over long breaks in between shooting that you had the same sense of humour and the same taste in recreation. After a hurried make out session in the makeup room brought on by far too much sexual tension during the video, he had asked you out for drinks, and the rest was history.

You two get into the car, and Marilyn’s driver turns. “Where to, guys?”

“Movies.”

The car starts, and about five minutes into the drive, Marilyn shifts uncomfortably.

“I forgot my wallet." 

Fifteen minutes later, you’re en route to the charming old theatre that you two had fallen in love with. It’s a beautiful old place, reminiscent of theatres in Paris or Berlin, with something characteristically Hollywood about it as well. They play classics and spooky movies all night, and since neither you nor your boyfriend really slept much during the nighttime, it was perfect for nocturnal date nights.

When you two get out, you hold onto his arm, him towering above you in his platform boots he never leaves the house without. You always feel so safe walking with him, and nobody ever dares approach because of not only his height, but who he is.

"Two tickets for the Exorcist, please,” Marilyn tells the lady at the cash, and she slides you two.

“Hey, you’re that singer…” the lady narrows her eyes, and Marilyn prepares himself. Lately, he’s used to being insulted (and threatened) on the regular ever since the shooting, which you had been helping him deal with.

“…I liked you in that film, Bowling For Columbine. I didn’t know you were so smart.”

He purses his lips. You know he wants to say it: his _‘I didn’t know you were so stupid’_ line. You smirk, waiting to see what he’ll do. “Thanks,” he says tightly, snatching his change, and you two walk in, hand in hand.

“I thought you were gonna give her a piece of your mind,” you tease, bumping his shoulder.

He shrugs. “I thought I’d be nice tonight. For your sake.” You get settled in, he places his hand over yours. “Y'know, this is the perfect place to jack me off,” he says, and you giggle.

“You’re a pervert.” He smirks, black lips turning upward.

“Nah. I like this film way too much to be distracted by your handjob. We’ve got the rest of the night.” He leans in. “And you know I’m gonna want some later." 

You bite your lip. He rests his hand on your bare thigh, inching it up your skirt, and his fingers graze your panties a little as the movie starts. Still, his touch remains innocent. He removes his hand, and leaves it safely on your knee. You silently curse him out for that.

The movie starts, and you feel his thumb stroke up and down your knee. You readjust in your seat, and instead take his hand to hold. You cuddle into his arm, and the two of you watch.

When the film is finished, it’s around 2:30 in the morning. The lady from the desk comes in and changes the film in the projector to They Live as you two leave, and Brian still tries to refrain from saying something snippy to her.

"I couldn’t stop thinking about you the whole time,” he murmurs, squeezing your hand, “Felt like a first date, holding your hand was giving me a hard on.” You giggle.

“Imagine the mess we could’ve left her if I decided to hold something else.”

The car pulls up, and you two get in. Marilyn seems thoughtful. You pick his brain.

“What’s on your mind?” That’s always the question the two of you ask– you both don’t like asking someone what’s wrong when they’re simply thinking or taking time to process.

Marilyn hums, turning from the window. “You tired?”

You shrug, shaking your head. “No. Not really.”

“How do you feel about sinning tonight?”

“Oh. Are we referring to sex as sinning now?” you smirk, “Very 12th century romance novel of you.” He just gives you a mysterious smile, a glint in his eye that tells you tonight would be different.

Once you’re back at the house, you head to the bedroom to take your jacket off. You look out the window. “Why is the car still here?”

Manson comes out of the walk in closet, in a costume he’s about to bring on tour with him once the new album drops. He’s dressed like the Pope… but a lot sexier. “What’s that from?" 

"Upcoming tour,” he says, extending his arms, “I’ll use it for Valentine’s Day, up on the swinging podium.”

You blush. That’s your favorite song on the new album– he had let you and a couple other people he knew, like his parents, listen to it after he had finished recording in the Houdini Mansion with the band.

“You know we’re gonna have to put this in the laundry every night on tour, right?” You inspect the material. “You’re gonna sweat right through this.”

“I don’t change my clothes on tour.”

“You’re gonna walk around dressed like Pope Pius XIV for six months?”

He smirks. “It’s only a temporary outfit, for one or two songs. I won’t sweat too bad. My main show clothes stay on.” He straightens himself up, and sucks in his cheekbones. “It’s the witching hour, sweetheart. I think it’s time for you to confess.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Are you the young priest or the old priest?”

“I’m the Antichrist, masquerading as a servant of God.”

You sway your hips a little as you dig into the walk in closet, trying to find something for yourself. You eventually come to a little blue nightie, and slip it on. You take his hand.

“Take me to church then, baby.”

The two of you get in the car. The driver is unphased by your get-ups, and equally unphased when Manson tells him to find the nearest church. ‘No questions asked’ must either be in the job description of working for Manson, or the poor guy may just be used to it.

“Make a right,” your boyfriend says. The car comes up on an old Gothic, wooden church with a tall steeple and stained glass windows.

“Oh baby,” you smile, “I just love it when we desecrate churches together.”

You two walk inside, Manson leading you down the middle of the walkway through the benches like a princess on her wedding day.

It’s almost pitch dark save for a few burning candles, the only other source of light offered by the streetlamps seeping in through the stained glass. You and Manson part at the alter, and begin lighting all the unlit candles, brightening the place up just a tad to a dim, haunting glow.

“This is eerie,” you murmur, looking around the interior of the building. “There’s no one else here.”

“It’s beautiful,” he says, “Art like this is wasted on the blind and the stupid.” You look around some more, feeling a chill run through you. All the statues at the front of the room here of Jesus, Mary and the angels are unsettling at night. Shadows creep up to the towering ceiling from flickering candles, and a mournful wind whistles slightly through the church. Manson brings you over to confessional, and sits.

“Forgive me father, for I have sinned.” You recall the words from books and movies. “This is my first confession.”

“What do you have to confess?” he speaks softly. You bite your lip.

“I haven’t been very good at all, father.”

“No?”

“No… in fact, the other day, I told my boyfriend I didn’t touch myself before he fucked me. I did.”

He’s quiet for a second. “Mm. What else?”

“I don’t know why, but… I feel desire, all the time. I know it’s wrong, but… I want my boyfriend all the time. Sometimes I’ll see him, and all I can think about is what it’ll taste like when I go down on him and get his big, hard cock in my mouth, cumming down my throat, using me like I’m his little whore. Which, of course… I am.“

You hear him exhale, and you hear the rustle of clothing. He takes himself out, grazing his balls for a moment, leaving his cock to rest against his robes.

"Your sin is lust,” he tries to speak with a level voice.

“Yes. But there’s more. See, I have these fantasies. They’re common. I have fantasies of demons pulling me every which way as my boyfriend watches them tongue fuck me.”

Manson moans inaudibly, stroking his fist up his cock. “What is he doing during this abuse of the carnal flesh?” he murmurs.

“He’s touching himself. Touching good. Slow. Watching me moan, cry, scream for him, as he touches his cock and watches my pretty pussy get licked and fucked.”

“Ah.” Manson gasps softly, but squeezes the head of his dick, unwilling to send the Pope outfit to the cleaner’s before it’s even out on the tour circuit.

The singer tucks himself back, stands, and exits the booth.

“Follow me.” He gets on the top step of the alter, rips your shirt down the middle, and once you’re topless, gestures to his feet. You kneel in front of him, arching your back. He puts the palm of his hand on your head, the other feeling beneath his robes for relief.

“Do you love your God?” he asks, looking down at you. He looks so powerful– so evil.

“Uh huh,” you nod eagerly, tongue out and mouth open wide.

“Will you worship him?”

“Yes,” you moan.

“Would you devote yourself to him?” he goes on, tenderly taking your chin between his fingers.

“Yes.” You blink up at him, and he lifts his arms in his role as Christian totalitarian.

“Let it be heard by the church, and all the angels, and GOD himself up in heaven… that this lost, promiscuous creature… seeks forgiveness.”

“How can I be absolved?” you ask, shifting your hips. Manson bites his lip.

“To absolve you of your sins, sweet girl, you’ve gotta repeat the sin before the eyes of the Holy Church.”

You grin, turning around to look. You imagine a room full of men and women, benches filled, all properly dressed, god fearing Catholics, watching you get defiled before God. 

“Fuck me?”

“Repent!” he proclaims, voice ringing out through the church as if he’s performing a show. “You don’t need God, my child. You need the dirty, dirty touch of something demonic.”

“I need the dirty touch of a rock star,” you correct, and part his robes. Manson smirks, clutching the bible to his chest.

“Go on, then. Fuckin’ absolve yourself.”

You lick your lips, and reach into his robes, feeling how hard he is. You give it a few strokes, and finally take it out. His cock is heavy in your hand, and you give it some attention, licking from base to tip. You take him all the way down, then lick back up, popping off with obscenely shiny lips.

“Who knew atoning for my sins would taste so good?" 

Manson shudders, putting a hand in your hair and guiding you back onto his cock. You choke a little, holding onto his robes as your moans start to fill the church. Manson starts to grunt, pushing his hips faster into your mouth, not caring one bit if you can breathe. You dare to put a hand down between your legs, and Manson catches you.

"Only filthy little sluts take pleasure in being used,” he growls, “Now earn your way into heaven, like a good little girl. Keep sucking this cock.”

You groan, grinding your hips against nothing as you get on all fours and arch your ass up. Manson moans when you take him down again, guiding your head back and forth.

“That’s a good girl. That’s a good little slut. Taking it all down so good, like you’re made for it. You were fucking made to take this.” He praises you, rubbing your cheek softly as you lick up the vein on the side of him, eyes closed and lost in the sensation of how far his dick is down your throat. “Wanna make that pretty face even more beautiful,” he says, and you obediently pop off his cock, looking up at him. 

He starts jacking off fast, already close, you can tell by the way his cock bobs, and you open your mouth again, sticking your tongue out to catch some. His fist is a blur as he bites down hard on his bottom lip, eyes rolling back as he finishes. You feel it coat your face, and some lands on your tongue. You moan, licking your lips clean, and he admires you. 

“You look like a slutty little angel.”

You can’t help it. You reach down, rub yourself just right, and finally orgasm on your own. Manson’s face changes. He points to the alter. Your bottom lip trembles as you go, and you get on all fours again, ass presented to him as you bend over the display. He takes his bible, and gives it to you.

“Bite down on this.” You whimper. “All sins must be punished,” he says, a sarcastic tone to his voice, “This is America, the land of worship.” He picks up a candle, and comes over to you. “Brace yourself, babygirl.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, and he pours a little onto your naked back. “Ah!” You nearly scream. “Shit, that hurts!”

“Blasphemy in the house of the Lord?” he murmurs, and drips some more onto you. You moan, feeling tears prick at your eyes.

Then he picks up a long crucifix, and you swallow. You turn back around, closing your eyes and preparing for the first hit.

“Bite down, sweetheart.” He smooths a hand down your back, lifts his chin, and brings the crucifix down hard on your ass.

“Mmmmff,” you mumble in pain, biting down on the book hard. A tear rolls down your cheek.

“Punishment is a part of repenting,” he growls, and brings it down again. You can feel yourself bleeding where he’s hitting, but you find it invigorating, exciting. You’re bleeding on a cross like Christ did, however fictional, and however drastic the differences in situation are. 

“I know you like this,” Manson remarks, teasing a finger down your lower lips, “I can see how wet you are.”

“Sir, please,” you whisper, the bible dropping out of your mouth.

“Shhh. Pain is only corporeal.” He hits you again, and you hear him growl. “Would you accept the devil inside of you?”

“Yes,” you whisper.

“Would you like to feel his tongue, deep inside you?”

“Yes!”

You suddenly feel the crucifix move. Manson plays with it a little over your slit, then starts to insert it in. Thankfully, the end is blunt, not sharp like in the Exorcist. Manson starts to fuck it in and out, and you wiggle your hips back, craving something bigger. 

He drops the bloody crucifix after he’s had his fun, and moves closer. He takes the Pope hat off, and parts his robes to reveal his black g-string he also uses for shows. He pushes that aside, and grabs your ass, smearing the blood with a sneer. You moan, more tears falling down your cheek. 

“I hope God is watching,” he snarls in your ear, “And I hope he gets hard from it.” He pushes his hardened cock into you from behind, starting up a fast pace. He tangles his fingers in your hair, pulling your head back, and fucks in hard and rough, pounding you. Inhuman moans come out of you, and you look up to see a big statue of Jesus watching the two of you. You grin, closing your eyes and enjoying the pain of his robes scratching the open cuts on your ass, and his cock reaching deeper than it ever has.

“Bite me,” you moan.

“What?”

“Feed on the blood of the sinner,” you murmur, and he abides. He bites down at the junction of your neck and back, hard enough to draw blood. He licks down your back, then comes back up to keep pounding you hard. You clutch the railings of the alter, shaking with the force.

“Yes,” you pant, “Yes, I’m so close.”

“How does it feel getting fucked by your earth’s Antichrist?”

“Feels s… so good, so… fucking good…”

He pushes in twice more, and you moan his name, grinding back onto him as you cum hard. He fucks you through it, and lets your hair go, slumping over top of you.

You reach back to grab his hand, and he takes it, holding you to him. After you’ve both caught your breath, he pulls out, and cleans himself off. He helps you clean your face off too, and you pull your panties back up. 

You start to blow out the candles and clean up the blood. He wanders over to one of the burning prayer candles, leaving it lit. “Light a candle for the sinners,” he says, “Set the world on fire.”

Just then, an elderly lady comes in, frowning. “I heard strange noises coming from here… I thought it must be Judgement Day at last." 

Manson looks over. "Churches have lots of strange noises. Lots of spirits here, watching and listening.”

“Did you talk to God, young man?” she asks, sitting down on one of the benches.

“No,” you answer, “But I’m pretty sure we found what we were looking for.”

The two of you leave the church. Manson helps you into the waiting car as you limp slightly, then gets in the other side. By now, the sun is almost up.

“Any other sights to see tonight, Mr. M?” the driver asks. Manson smooths his robes, fixing his hair.

“Not tonight.”

You lean over, and lay your head on his lap as he strokes your face. “You wanna know a fun fact?” you whisper.

“Mm.”

“They had an actual serial killer who acted in The Exorcist. They just didn’t know he was yet.”

Manson looks down at you, and purses his smudged black lips. “I think I love you." 


	21. You and Me and The Devil Makes Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your boyfriend Brian is horny for you all class, but the substitute teacher, Mr. Manson, is onto you two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Teacher!Manson x student!Brian Warner x Reader.
> 
> Eras: Mr. Manson-- Heaven Upside Down/ Brian-- Spooky Kids

You had promised yourself you were going to be a good girl, and focus in class today. 

You’re less than a model student, and sitting right in front of your boyfriend doesn’t help that fact. So today, since there was a test coming up in three days, you had made the productive decision to sit across the room from him. As you all wait for the teacher to arrive, Jeordie plunks down next to you wearing a Bauhaus shirt, hair wild as usual and English books all crumpled and doodled to hell.

“Have you ever seen a turtle take a shit?” he whispers to you. You sigh. So, you wouldn’t be getting anything done today either. 

Brian glances over at you from the other side of the classroom, pouting. He likes putting on a tough act, but the truth is, he’s a needy motherfucker. Pogo’s sitting next to him, along with Scott, or Daisy as you all call him, who’s probably the only one in your friend group who actually cares about being here. You stick your tongue out at Bri in response, and he gives you the finger. Smiling, you turn back to your blank page, then look at the time. It’s 5 minutes after class should have started, and Mrs. Nordman is never late.

Over on the other side of the room, Brian doodles a couple hearts with spirals in them on his page. Pogo looks over his shoulder. 

“You gonna start writing out “Brian (y/l/n) beside those hearts, dude?” he grins. Brian glares at him. 

“Yeah, right next to you deepthroating a knife.” Defiantly, the eighteen year old draws even bigger hearts, then starts sketching a mutilated corpse. 

The door opens, and an unfamiliar face walks in. Everyone keeps chattering loudly as the man walks toward the desk, and still while he writes and underlines his name on the board. He then turns around, and you get a better look at him. He’s very tall, just like Brian, but has more of a fuller figure than Brian’s own stick thin frame. He must be at least 20 years yours and his senior. He’s dressed in a black suit, has closely cropped black hair, painted fingernails, and sunglasses on. 

Different than most substitute teachers, you note right off the bat. 

“Who does this guy think he is?” Jeordie murmurs. The song Sunglasses At Night fills your head as you watch him in amusement. He’s attractive. He’s got a subtle purse of his lips (which are filled in with plum colored lipstick) and fingers that are tattooed with alchemical symbols. _Definitely not a run of the mill sub._ You wonder what your boyfriend thinks of him.

Brian inspects the teacher, admiring his makeup. He looks great– confident, sexy, and ready to fuck up anyone who disagrees. Everything Brian himself aspires to be. 

“What’s with the makeup, man?” someone from the back of the class asks the teacher. “You into dudes?" 

The new teacher finally speaks, looking out around the class and zeroing in on his target. "Why? Do you wanna fuck me?” You smile, and hear Brian choke out a laugh. The teacher turns to him, and despite the playfulness in his eyes, asks the question. "Something funny?”

“No,” Brian says calmly with a smile, “That was just a, uh. A good comeback.”

The teacher’s lips turn up ever so slightly as he takes in the younger man’s goth, slightly extravagant appearance. “I live to entertain." 

He turns away to the board, tapping it. "Mr. Manson. That’s what you can call me. I’m filling in for Mrs. Nordman, she had a little too much fun last night and needs a day off to vomit and cry.”

“You’re name’s Manson?” Pogo pipes up, “Like the serial killer?” The class laughs.

“Very good, Mr…” he checks the list, “Bier. You know your American history.”

“I’m more partial to John Wayne Gacy,” Pogo responds.

“Gacy was an interesting man. Interesting inclinations. Manson used to be my stage name.”

“Stage name?” Brian is suddenly interested, setting his sketching aside. He’s started a band of his own with the guys, and is interested in everything to do with music and art.

“Yeah. I used to perform.”

“Were you a stripper?” one kid snickers. Mr. Manson doesn’t seem bothered by the question at all.

“You could say that. Now and then when I’m in between gigs, I do some work on the side, which is why I teach.”

“Can you teach me how to work a pole?” a girl laughs. Mr. Manson rolls his eyes lazily over to her.

“You look like you know how, sweetheart.” This shuts her up, and a blanket of awe falls over the class.

"You can’t even take your sunglasses off indoors, how can we expect you to teach us anything good?” another girl scoffs.

“A night of drugs and vodka would prevent you from taking these off too, believe me.”

This gets some genuine laughs from the class, and people start to warm up to him. He’s sarcastic, witty, and seems to not really give a fuck what he says and if he’ll get in trouble for saying it. You like that. You look Mr. Manson up and down, smirking, and turn to see your boyfriend chewing on his lip ring thoughtfully. Jeordie leans in.

“Alrighty. He’s kinda awesome.”

Class starts as usual, Mr. Manson adapting to the textbook and teaching what he needs to. About an hour in, a crumpled up note hits you in the head.

_I miss you._

You roll your eyes. It’s only been sixty minutes. 

Another note comes your way. This one bounces off Jeordie’s head, waking him up before it hits your desk. He reads it and snorts, tossing it to you.

_Come over here and give me a blow job baby?_

Bri’s also drawn a little doodle of you two in the cartoon style he’s used on all his Spooky Kids band flyers, you with your mouth around his very large penis while cartoon-him leans back and smiles. It’s your turn to give him the finger, though it makes you smile when you see him pouting pleadingly. 

Before you realize it, Mr. Manson comes by and plucks the note off your desk. He smirks over at Brian. 

“You sure this is proportionate, Mr. Warner?” 

Brian ducks his head shyly. “I’d like to think so.” 

“Mm. So it’s open to interpretation? All good art is.” Manson tosses the note back onto the table, and gives you a look. 

“Sorry,” you whisper to him, biting your lip.

“Nah, it’s fine. I’d be drawing pictures of my dick too, if it was that big.” You giggle.

“So you’re not mad?”

“I’m never mad. Just get back to work. If I turn around and see an empty seat…” he gestures to the note, “I’ll know where to look.”

You spread your legs a little– just a little. “I hope you like what you see, sir.”

He just turns back to the front of the class, clearing his throat. “Remember, if anybody needs any help with anything, just come up to me. I can’t guarantee I’ll know the answer, but I’ll pretend like I do and… let you all think I’m a good teacher.”

More laughter– a good cover-up for your comment apparently. When Mr. Manson turns his back, Brian tosses another note to you, this one missing Jeordie’s head thankfully, and in exasperation, you open it. More drawings of you two in various sexual positions? You read the note.

_Turn him on._

You look up at him, frowning. _What?_ Is he actually giving you permission to get the teacher hard? Brian nods at you, and you look back to the teacher. He’d better not be planning some kind of prank. This seems different though. Brian seems to like Mr. Manson.

Well, you can’t exactly deny you want to do this. There are benefits to having the same taste in men as your boyfriend, and both of you get to enjoy those. Mr. Manson seems pretty level headed. Maybe you’d have to work for it… and the best way was to be a bad, bad girl. You look back to your boyfriend, nodding.

“Sir?” you put your hand up, waving. Manson looks up.

“Mhmm?”

“I’ve got a question.”

You toss a note to Brian. He opens it, and reads your request. He nudges Daisy, and whispers something. Daisy reluctantly agrees, and passes one of his cigarettes and lighter to the guy next to him, who passes it over, over, over, until it reaches Jeordie.

“Thanks, but I don’t smoke,” he tells the girl who passed it to him, and you whack him in the thigh.

“It’s for me!”

“You don’t smoke.”

“Just fucking go with it, Jeordie!”

He shrugs, and gives it to you. You clear your throat, and hold it between your fingers as Manson finally looks up from his papers expectantly.

“Can I go out for a smoke?”

Mr. Manson hesitates, obviously put off by the question. “You’re a respectable young lady, you shouldn’t be smoking.” It’s obvious he’s being sarcastic.

“At least I’m not doing lines off my textbook.” You quirk an eyebrow in challenge, a dig at him and his assumed lifestyle outside of teaching. He sighs.

"No.”

You feign offense. “No?”

“You heard me, sweetheart,” he drawls, “I think it’s time someone told a little brat like you no.”

Ignoring the throb in your pussy you got from that statement, you keep the act going.

“Fine. If you won’t let me…” You snatch the lighter, and before you can really think about what you’re doing, light your lined booklet on fire. Jeordie stares at you in shocked excitement, starting to wonder why the fire alarm hasn’t gone off yet. Stupid broken down old school’s gonna kill you all one day, probably from a prank he initiated with Bri and the guys. 

Mr. Manson’s jaw clenches, but you just let the book burn, holding it up. The class is transfixed, unable to look away as you let all the paper burn. Manson isn’t about to stop you, the two of you in a staring match. Finally having burned it down to ash, you drop the remains of the book right on the desk, and cross your arms, the action plumping up your breasts over your tank top. 

Manson stares at you, and takes his sunglasses off to reveal smokey, black lined eyes. “You think you’re clever, huh?”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Test me one more time, honey." 

That sends shivers through you, and over at his desk, Brian feels warmth travel down to his groin. He shouldn’t be getting aroused watching his girlfriend talk back and flirt outright with the teacher, but both of you are so sexy. He starts imagining what it would be like fucking you while sucking Mr. Manson off.

More blood rushes down to his cock, and he looks down with a hot blush to see a growing bulge in his black jeans shorts. At least he has the leggings underneath to restrict him, but currently, it’s not a great situation. He looks around, biting his lip as he takes the heel of his pencil and forces it against the base of his dick.

Then he looks over again, sees you sitting there, brows furrowed as you say something argumentative, from those soft pink lips. And fuck, Mr. Manson looks so angry, his jaw clenched. What you two could do to him… what he could do to you.

Brian suppresses a whine, trying his best to slouch even further under the desk so that he can hide his boner. He gives himself a quick rub for relief that could easily be passed off as a typical scratch, but his position is making things weird.

"Geez, man,” Daisy whispers, nudging him, “At least try to stay awake in class.” Brian sighs, staring at the clock and willing the hands to move. One wrong move here and he’d cum in his pants.

“Mr. Warner.”

Brian’s gaze shoots up. Oh no. “Yeah?” he tries to seem careless and calm in replying. Mr. Manson looks at him.

“You seem upset. You need to see a nurse?”

“A psychiatrist, more like,” Pogo interjects, and any other time, Brian would tell his friend to shut the hell up, but right now he’s glad for the distraction. Manson abandons the subject as a result, and turns back to his work.

You wiggle in your seat, throbbing and soaked through your panties. You want to get him mad again like that, make him really wanna punish you.

You try to think up what your grand finale should be. You can’t think, however, due to your arousal, so you get up from your desk instead. 

“Mr. Manson?”

_“What?”_

“Can I use the washroom?”

“You’re not gonna smoke in there and get me in trouble for letting you, are you?”

You smirk, adjusting your hair. “I don’t smoke.” As you head toward the door, you motion inconspicuously for Brian to follow. You hadn’t had him for a few days now, and after all that flirting with the teacher, you’re more than a little wet. 

Once you leave, Brian shoots a spitball through a straw at Jeordie, who wakes up again, looking around. He sees Brian motion to him, and through their unspoken best friend code, Jeordie knows what to do.

“Uh, sir?” Jeordie puts his hand up, and Mr. Manson walks over. “Yes, how do you, uhh… know the difference between thee, thy, and thine in Macbeth speak?”

While Manson is distracted, Brian makes his escape. He darts out the door, and grins to himself, sticking his hands in his pockets as he walks briskly toward the boy’s washroom. He lets his hair cover his face and fall over his Route 666 T-Shirt as he enters, hunched over, just in case there are others who could identify him. It’s thankfully empty… save for you. 

“Baby,” you smile.

“God, I wanted to get my hands on you all morning,” he murmurs, hurrying over. “All I could think of was what this pussy feels like, got a fucking erection in class.”

“Did you wanna jack off under the desk?” you ask, nipping at his bottom lip. He groans.

“Yeah. Need you, need to fuck you so good.”

“Fuck me so we can get back quick,” you giggle. He unzips his shorts, pulling down his leggings as well, and he kicks your legs apart, you facing the wall. He tugs your panties down, licking his lips, and teases your folds a little with the tip of his dick. 

“So wet, huh? All wet for me?” 

“Mhmmm…”

“What about Mr. Manson?” He leans into your ear, warm breath tingling your skin. “You really sold it back there. You wanna see his big cock, don’t you? Wanna suck on it?”

“No more than you do,” you tease, and he chuckles, lining himself up.

He buries himself inside of you. “Oh, fuck yeah, baby,” he groans, “Fuck, I love this tight little pussy." 

"Fuck me hard Bri, I wanna feel you for days,” you moan, bracing your palms against the wall. He starts to go harder, desperate to get you both off with enough time to get back into class, but the door swings open. Brian looks back, his dick halfway back inside you, and he makes a little noise.

“What? Who is it?” you moan.

“I don’t recall giving you permission to leave the class, Mr. Warner,” Mr. Manson’s low, growling voice says, as the teacher crosses his arms.

“Sir,” Brian swallows, “We–”

“No.” The teacher stands in front of the door, keeping it shut. “Continue.” You feel yourself get even wetter at the thought of the sexy teacher watching you get fucked.

“Y-you… want me to keep going?” Brian asks, voice small. Manson takes his sunglasses off once again, folding them up and tucking them in his suit pocket. His voice is calm and level, but his arousal is evident.

“That’s what I said.”

Brian slowly draws out, and pounds back in as you gasp. You hear Mr. Manson unzip his pants, the sound of clothes rustling alongside Brian’s pale, slender hips slapping your ass with every thrust filling the men’s washroom.

“You like watching, daddy?” you ask, grinning.

“Mmm,” Manson hums, starting to stroke himself at the name. “You think it’s appropriate to call me that, Miss (y/l/n)?”

“To be brutally honest sir, I don’t give much of a fuck.”

Manson smirks. “Good. Cause neither do I.”

Brian is working up a sweat behind you, biting his lip as he pounds you as hard as he can.

“Yeah, baby,” you whine, “Right there." 

Brian kisses your shoulder as he keeps going. Then he gets an idea. At first he’s a little nervous… but he knows you’ve always encouraged any fantasy he’s ever had. He’s sure you won’t mind– you may even like it too. "Mr. Manson?”

“Mhm?”

“C-Come and touch me?”

The professor raises his non existent eyebrows. “I could get in lots of trouble for that, Mr. Warner.”

“So could we,” you laugh. Manson finally saunters over with that confident swagger, and feels a hand down to Brian’s ass.

“That what you want? Mm?”

“Oh god…” He presses back into the teacher, eyelids fluttering from the stimulation of his cock inside you while being fawned over by the older man.

“You want to feel daddy touch you? So pretty… such a dirty little thing… dirty little pretty boy.”

“Yeah.”

“You could barely hide your hard on in class. Thought I couldn’t see.”

“Oh,” Brian moans.

“I saw your hand on your cock. You needed (y/n) bad.” Brian literally purrs, and Manson shifts his focus. “What about you, sweetheart, how you doing over there?”

“Fuck!” is all you can manage out, and Manson smirks.

“Your boy here really knows how to do the work. He’s giving it his all.”

“Daddy, please,” Brian whines, and you don’t think you’ve heard anything so hot in your life.

“Daddy’s here,” Mr. Manson growls, feeling down Brian’s ass and between his legs. When he grazes your boyfriend’s balls, you feel Brian go even harder, and you very nearly sob as he hits your g-spot perfectly.

“Shhh, shhh, babygirl,” Manson whispers, coming over to you, “Can’t have anyone come, stumble in and find us, hm?" 

"Like you?” you retort, turning your head to the side to face him, and he grins, stroking your chin.

“Like me." He presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth, then to your lips. You open up for him, and he swipes his tongue along your lower lip, his lipstick rubbing against your skin. He lets up the kiss, and you pause to turn around, wrapping your legs around Brian as he sloppily pushes back in. You move forward to kiss your boyfriend now, all messy tongue and hot gasps. You tilt your head back in ecstasy on a particularly good thrust, and Manson takes this opportunity to kiss Brian, the two starting to make out as Brian rocks you against the wall. They finally part. “That lip ring makes it hard to kiss.”

Brian gives him a dark smile, getting off on being just as bratty as you. “I don’t live my life to please older guys like you.” Manson looks at him in amusement. 

“You in a punk rock band or something? You seem like you’d be perfect for one.” 

“I am, actually,” Brian says, running his tongue along his bottom lip, over his piercing just to make a point. 

“They’re magnificent,” you moan, rocking down on your boyfriend. “They go all out on stage.” 

“Mmm. I bet Brian fucks you nice and rough after his shows, (y/n),” Manson says. 

“Oh, he does,” you grin, “_Nice _and rough.” You look down and smile at Manson’s hand in his pants, moving in quick, deliberate jerks. "You like what you see, sir?” you grin, and Mr. Manson growls.

“Little fuckin’ troublemaker.”

“I wanna see it,” you moan out. Manson lifts his chin, and lifts his top up just above his belly button, revealing more tattoos on his deliciously soft stomach, and his cock underneath, the head weeping into his hand. “Keep touching it,” you breathe. He doesn’t break eye contact with you as he drags his fist up his hard cock, up and over the swollen head, and back down as he picks up his pace again.

It’s your turn for another request, and you ask it properly, biting your pinky. “I want you both to fuck my mouth.”

“Filthy,” Manson murmurs, “You’ve got a girl who fuckin’ knows what she wants.”

Brian lets you down, and you get on your knees in between them. You’re used to sucking Brian off, but having Mr. Manson’s cock in front of you as well makes you flush.

Brian reaches for you first, grabbing your hair and shoving you down over him. You deepthroat him immediately, choking a little, and Brian keeps jerking your head back and forth by your hair, making sure you’re good and used. You can taste yourself on him as you suck around the head, absolutely getting off on how rough he’s being. 

“Take it,” he hisses, sneering, and you moan. Eventually, you switch to give Manson some attention. He’s waiting patiently, and you’re the one who holds him at the base as you slide your lips down over him.

“Mmmm. Perfect,” he grumbles, “Good girl.” You work him, taking him all the way down and back up, and you reach back to jerk Brian off as well. You pop off Manson, and alternate between the two. After a moment, Brian takes initiative, and takes Manson’s cock in hand with his, pumping them together as you kitten lick them both. Brian bats his eyes up at the teacher, and Manson takes over, jacking the two of them off. Brian lets out a choked out cry as he finishes over your lips and in Manson’s hand, but the teacher doesn’t stop. He continues to stroke your boyfriend as he encourages you to get up.

“Not outta the game yet, angel.” The teacher shoots you a smirk. Brian’s half hard again in minutes, and he picks you up, sensitive from his first orgasm but just as feral and desperate, long black hair plastered to his face and neck. He pushes back into you, and you bury your face in his neck, craving your building release.

“I’m… fucking close,” Brian breathes. Manson saunters close again.

“C'mon, baby. That’s it. Give her your load, you know you want to,” he whispers in Brian’s ear, grinding his own cock against the young man’s ass, against the material of the black denim, “She wants you to.” Mr. Manson traces your lips with his fingers, and slips them into your mouth for you to suck on. You do so gratefully, moaning. “She’s a little cumslut, you know it. Aren’t you, baby girl? Sweetheart’s a whore, wanna get filled up like a little whore?”

“Mhm,” you moan desperately. 

“Fuck, fuck!” Brian gasps, and cums deep inside you again. Manson gives a small groan, rubbing himself to completion with his free hand, and you’re hit with your own powerful orgasm, riding it out on your boyfriend’s throbbing cock. 

When the three of you finally stumble away from the wall, you start to realize what just happened.

“Well. That was better than study hall,” you smile, taking Brian’s arm. He’s still catching his breath as Manson looks at the two of you, fixing his suit jacket. He tucks himself back up into his boxers, zips his fly, and looks in the mirror. He uses a finger to clean up his lipstick a little, and puts his sunglasses back on.

“Okay, would it be too cliche of me to say I’m giving you both As?”

“Yeah,” Brian grins, shoving his hand in your back pocket affectionately, “But we earned that shit.”

As Manson turns back to keep fixing his makeup, he notices the twisted heart he had been doodling earlier, tattooed on the older man’s wrist. Huh. Some kinda serendipitous coincidence.


	22. WOW

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a painfully public breakup and a bitter album released clearly inspired by you, you and Manson couldn’t despise each other more… until you’re both dragged to a night of karaoke that could reset everything you’d both been telling yourselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Era: The High End Of Low

_“(y/n), can you tell us about your fallen romance with Marilyn Manson?”_

_You snort, looking at the cameras. “Fallen? You mean fucked up beyond all recognition.”_

_“Manson! Can you tell us about your old flame (y/n)?”_

_“She’s more of an all consuming hellfire than flame, but…”_

_“(y/n)! Can you give us a little insight into why you two, a couple seemingly perfect for each other, broke up?!”_

_“If you want perfect, you are not looking in the right place.”_

_“Manson, why did musician (y/n) break up with you?!”_

_“Oh, she broke up with me? Is that the story now? Wow.”_

* * *

Manson stands in the studio he’d created out of an empty room in his house, feeling his phone go off in his pocket. 

“Can we… can we,” he holds up a finger. The tech halts the backtrack of Arma-goddamn-motherfucking-geddon, and Manson steps away from the mic. Twiggy looks at him curiously, holding his bass by the neck. Ginger halts his drumming as well, drumming on his knees instead. He got a text from his manager– another text– about some shit you’d said about him in the press. Not wishing to indulge it, he tries to ignore it… but ultimately opens the article. 

Reading through it, he grits his teeth, and snaps his fingers. “Change of plans. We’re doing WOW right now.” 

“We’ve gotta get this single out by Friday Manson, Frankie’s on our ass about it!”

“Fuck Frankie, roll WOW.” _And fuck (y/n) too, _he thinks bitterly, _soon the world is gonna see what a fucking hypocrite she is. _

You and your friend arrive at the bar on Friday night, getting out of the hired limo. “What are we doing here?” you ask.

“Looking good. Getting laid. Typical party stuff.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s fun, you dud! And, it’ll take your mind off…”

“Wow.”

“Yeah.”

Recently, the internet had been blowing up with theories about one of your ex-boyfriend’s songs on his new album that just came out, The High End Of Low. Fans were already theorizing that this album was a result of your break-up, and it was pretty hard to disprove. Specifically, there was one song you and your circle knew was written about you. It’s called WOW.

“You didn’t listen to it, did you?”

“No, of course not! I don’t wanna hear that asshole’s voice ever again.” Lies. You had not only listened to it fifteen times while fuming by the pool, but you looked up the lyrics too, just to be sure it wasn’t all in your head how skewed his side of the story was. 

“Well, I just want you to keep an open mind here. If you listen to it, you may not be as receptive to possibilities that may present themselves in… certain ways.”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

Inside, at a corner booth of the karaoke bar, Manson sits with his recently reunited best friend, Twiggy.

“I don’t like it here,” he murmurs, zipping his hoodie up over his face, “I’m scared, I wanna call my mom.” Twiggy unzips him to his chin, and gives him a look. Manson makes a sour face right back. “Y'know, you were a lot more fun when you were on drugs.”

“I’ve been told that.”

Manson just sighs. “You know how I feel about bars. I prefer to get shit-hammered in the privacy of my own home, thank you.”

“Just… trust me,” his friend says, “Tonight’ll be a good one.”

“Mhmm.”

“There’s karaoke!”

“Fuck karaoke. Fuck the goddamn TV and the radio, and fuck making hits, I’m taking credit for the death toll.”

His friend hesitates. “Isn’t that a line from one of our new singles?”

Manson hides behind his drink. “Yeah.”

“Look, I know you get emotional over shit. That’s totally fine. You were there for me in my time of loss, I’m here for you now.”

“It’s not loss, I don’t feel _sad _that she’s gone.”

“Keep telling yourself that. And while we’re on the subject, I know this feels like Armageddon for you. Don’t– argue. But trust me when I say, you’re gonna forget all about the fights tonight. It’ll be fun!”

“Mhmm.”

“Lighten up!” He pauses. “Not the best thing to say to you, in particular.” As Manson glares at him, his friend zips his hoodie back up to his nose. “Carry on.”

Your friend and you get a booth by the stage, and you take your sunglasses off.

“A karaoke bar?” you repeat for the third time, “I mean, that’s cheesy as hell. Everyone’s gonna expect me to do my own songs, and that’s just fucking weird.”

“Stop being so negative, and enjoy yourself.”

“Fine. For your sake only, cause I appreciate you as a friend.”

Manson takes the second glass of double vodka, sipping from it. Jeordie doesn’t drink anymore, but he had ordered the same as his best friend, so Manson “wouldn’t look like an alcoholic.” Impossible to shield that, at this point. 

“What happened to your first love, absinthe?” Twiggy asks, looking down at the clear liquid.

“Second love. Lily White is my first.”

“Right. Second love.”

“It was giving me a pot belly.”

“I don’t see a pot belly.”

“Then switching worked.”

“I think that would be the late night trips to McDonald’s giving you a pot belly, Bri.”

“Oh. Really? So now you’re not only a guru of sobriety, but a health coach. I didn’t see you practicing what you preach when you ate seventeen of my chicken nuggets last night.”

“I have a better metabolism than you.”

“Oh. No, you’re right. Thanks Dr. White, I’ll take that into account.”

“Okay–”

“Where did you get your PHD? Fucking God-Complexes-R-Us?”

“Bri, stop it.”

“Or was it Fuck Off And Die Collegiate?!”

“See, this is why people get so fed up with you! They try to tell you the truth, and you get fucking defensive!”

Any other night, Manson would’ve hit back. But tonight, he had a little heartache mixed in with the bitterness, which somewhat tempered his reactionary behavior, and because of this, his friend’s words stung.

“Sorry,” Twiggy mutters after a long period of silence. He always used to mistake the singer’s silence for hurt, when in reality, Manson was usually picturing all the ways he could take his bloody revenge in the future. Tonight, even though he should be the one apologizing, not Jeordie, he just couldn’t bring himself to care.

Before Manson could respond though, he froze. His gaze had set upon the booth opposite him, and he felt his stomach flop and skin burn. 

“Squeeze that drink any tighter, you’ll have shards of glass in your hand,” Twiggy jokes, then follows his friend’s line of sight. “Oh shit.”

Someone starts singing a song from Phantom of the Opera, and you recall you and Brian making the joke that the two of you were like Eric and Christine. 

Fuck, you feel dirty even thinking about him. You need to take a shower now. _Shower_… god, stop picturing the time he fucked you doggy style in the shower with nipple clamps while listening to Comfortably Numb. Now you can never listen to that song again. Starting today, after last night’s momentary relapse of picturing that thing Brian did with his fingers that day and attempting to recreate it on yourself. 

“Is that her?” Twiggy hisses.

“The witch bitch, live and in person,” Manson rasps, and downs the rest of his drink.

Manson watches you from his seat, the anguish he’d felt while recording the new album flooding back. It was like he wanted to scream at you and fuck you at the same time, and feelings are very confusing when you’re still 80% sober. Trying desperately to tip those numbers, he calls for a server to just bring them the whole ass bottle. 

“Aren’t you gonna go talk to her?” Twiggy asks, leaning in. Manson looks at him like he’d just beamed down from whatever planet their alien alter egos from Mechanical Animals were from. 

“Why the fuck would I do that, Jeordie?" 

"Because…” Twiggy grasps at straws, “Her ass looks amazing in that dress!”

Manson shrugs, pouring another full glass, no chaser. “You go fuck her, then. See what comes next for yourself." 

"Look. I know she wasn’t the nicest through the whole thing, but you were also not your best. Okay? I don’t care if you excommunicate me for saying it, I’ve been excommunicated before by you and honestly? It helped me find myself spiritually, so fuck you. I enabled you for so long, so I’m gonna come right out and say it– you were happy with her! You were mildly less of a dick when she was around!” His voice softens. “And I love you man, I do, I love your personality, we vibe, but there are lines to be drawn and efforts to be made.”

“Did your therapist tell you all that?" 

”–And since you’re my best friend, I don’t know… makes sense I like seeing you in a good place.“ 

"You done your monologue?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. The next time I touch her body, she’ll no longer be breathing,” Manson says, and Twiggy rubs his hands over his face. 

“Please don’t say that out loud in a populated club.”

When you’re not looking, your friend turns back to Twiggy, who she had been in league with all along, and makes a desperate gesture. You still hadn’t noticed Manson was here, but the two of you had to collide tonight somehow, as per their plan. Twiggy shrugs back at her in equal desperation, until he thinks of something. He starts motioning up on stage, and points to you. Your friend nods dutifully. 

“Why don’t you do a song?” she asks. You think about it, weighing the pros and cons, then finally nod. 

“Yeah, alright. If I can pick any song, not one of mine. It’ll take my mind off things at least.” You get up, letting your hair down and leaving your bag on the chair.

From their table, Twiggy groans softly as he gets a better look at the flyer he had failed to read upon booking a table-service booth tonight. _Showtunes night. _Great. Does Brian even like showtunes? He remembers John did… but would this work? He’d never thought of anyone getting back together over Don’t Rain On My Parade or some shit. 

You step up on stage, and look at the options. Showtune night. Huh. Wouldn’t it be poetic justice to do a song that reminded you of him, just to say fuck you? He may not be here to hear it, but it would be your way of driving a final stake through the heart of whatever you had. 

Sadness fills you as you think of that. It had been a meaningless fight, really, meaningless now. But both you and Brian, however symbiotic, were stubborn and pretty self-centered… a recipe for a messy break-up with not much chance of apologies or reconciliation. You’d both been pretty unreasonable, in the end. 

You push all that out of your mind; you had contemplated all that enough in bed, staring at the ceiling and wishing he was beside you. You select Past The Point Of No Return from Phantom, and the music starts as your mic is handed to you. You sing the Phantom’s opening.

_“Past the point of no return… no backward glances… our games of make-believe are at an end.” _Your voice fills the bar, and Manson looks up. You’re doing the song from the only musical he’d listen to with you. 

_“Past all thought of if or when,”_ you go on, _“No use resisting. Abandon thought and let the dream descend…”_ The emotions you’d been bottling up for public image start to build, and you find your anger start to swell as you relate the song to every aspect of your relationship. “_What raging fire shall flood the soul? What rich desire unlocks its door? What sweet seduction lies before us? Past the point of no return… the final threshold, what warm unspoken secrets will we learn?Beyond the point of no return…” _Tears prick your eyes as you get ready to do Christine’s part as well…

But another voice comes in behind you. 

_“You have brought me…”_ His deep rasp is unmistakable. _“To that moment when words run dry. To that moment when speech disappears into silence… silence.”_ Christine’s part should be light and airy, but the darkness of his growled out singing is hypnotic. You turn to him, clenching your jaw, but he doesn’t look at you. He just keeps walking forward, and takes his spot at the front of the make do stage opposite you.   
  
_“I have come here… hardly knowing the reason why. In my mind, I’ve already imagined our bodies entwining.” _He’s no doubt thinking of the lyrics in context of how he feels as well. Why couldn’t he care how you feel too?! _“Defenseless and silent. Now I am here with you… no second thoughts. I’ve decided.”_ He finally looks up over to you. _“Decided.” _

The two of you start to sing together, voices locking as one melody. 

_“Past the point of no return. The final threshold.” _He approaches you, and suddenly, he’s too close. As close as you wanted him to be. _“The bridge is crossed, so stand and watch it burn.”_ He looks into your eyes, and you feel a shiver of fear. You know what he’s capable of… and you want all of it.

He takes your arms, and you face him, the two of you lifting your mics up to sing as if no one else was in the bar watching. “We’ve passed the point… of no… return.” You breathe the last word, and he drops the mic. You stare at one another in close proximity for a few seconds, the weight of the song and what you had just expressed to one another hanging heavily between you. Finally, the unsuspecting crowd starts to cheer, a few phone cameras flashing, and you duck out of the way, hurrying off stage. Manson watches after you, and lets you go. 

You disappear down the hallway toward the washroom, and hear footsteps behind you. You don’t have to turn around to know who it is. 

“Are we gonna talk about that?” you ask, crossing your arms. 

“There’s nothing to talk about.” You turn, and his lips part. You feel all the tension from singing the song together finally burst and release, and he’s on you, lips at your neck and hands running lower. 

Twiggy and your best friend sit at the booth together, watching down the hallway like a couple of creeps, absolutely in awe. 

“I didn’t think it would be that easy,” your friend mutters to him, stealing his (Manson’s) strong drink. 

“You call that easy?” Twiggy huffs. 

You two barely register getting into a parked limo by the road, careless of if it was waiting for anyone in particular. Cameras start going off as the pap surrounds the car, and the rock star blindly gives them all the finger, continuing kissing you.

“Fuckin’ drive,” Manson parts from your lips long enough to growl, and money is money– the guy pulls away from the curb.

“Where we going?” the guy asks, keeping his gaze trained ahead. It’s better not to know who it is when two celebrities stumble into the backseat of your car.

Manson mumbles out his address, and you do up the partition as your ex digs under your skirt, sliding your panties down and off. Your back is to the window and one leg is over his shoulder as he parts your folds and slides two fingers into you.

“Missed me, I see,” he smirks.

You ignore the comment, wriggling your hips for him to go deeper. Just as he’s about to scissor in a third finger, you reach the destination. Disgruntled, Manson kicks the door open, and tosses the driver a wad of bills that are probably covered in illicit substances. Oh, well. Not his problem anymore.

“You have a good n–” Manson slams the door again, and the two of you kiss up to his door. Letting you in, he closes it again, and he pries himself off you, unzipping his hoodie.

“Get upstairs. I’ll be there in a minute.”

“You can wait for me,” you scoff, “I’ve got to get ready.” He clenches his jaw, and watches you ascend the steps, hips swaying. You head into the first guest bathroom, and shut the door. Lily jumps gracefully off her luxury carpeted palace and pads over to her daddy, rubbing against his leg and getting white fur on his black pants. He looks down at the little cat who had seen him drain many a bottle over you, and seen him deface the walls with lyrics that expressed how he felt about you.

“Yeah I know, Lily girl. I can’t believe she’s back here either.” Lily licks his leg once, then goes trotting up the stairs to go find you, the one she had come to consider her mom. Manson shakes his head, unsure of whether to call it betrayal or just call it cute.

He heads up to the master bedroom after her. He sheds the full body zip hoodie, takes his shirt off, but leaves his black jeans and boots on. You finally come back in, hypnotic in matching lingerie. Of course, you hadn’t worn it for him… but it was, incidentally, his favorite matching set: the black and red push up bra with the lacy panties. He drinks in the sight of you, and you step forward from the door frame, black stilettos still on. You look at him, how he’s sitting on the edge of the bed you two had spent many a night in. His long legs stretch far out, those platform boots still on, and he looks like goth royalty. It’s turning you on beyond belief, and he knows it. _Asshole._

You approach him, and slide your hands over his shoulders, down his back, urging him to lay back on the bed. You then reach down, and unzip him, helping him out of his pants and finally taking his boxers off. You slide down on top of him, bewitching him with your parted lips, and his eyes squeeze shut, hands flying up to grab your ass and hips.

“I missed this,” he groans, hands feeling up to your stomach as you sit all the way down on his cock.

“I’m sure,” you mutter sarcastically, “After that album, I could tell you were just pining.” You slam down particularly hard, and he gasps.

“Music is my catharsis.”

“I know.”

“I’m allowed to be mad.”

“So am I.”

“Why were we mad in the first place?” he mumbles, lost in your eyes and the way your breasts drag over his face with every grind of your hips.

“Don’t know. We were mad a lot. Apparently this time we were mad enough to end things for good.”

He’s quiet for a minute. “For good?” You look down, and see his eyebrows lift a little.

“You know,” you whisper, ghosting your lips down his chest, “You make a big fuss on your albums and in the press for someone who forgets we were fighting at all when he gets a little pussy.” The lyrics to WOW run through your mind again, and you find yourself going harder on him, almost furiously. 

“I forgot how much I love this pussy,” he murmurs, “Doesn’t change the fact you’re still a selfish bitch.”

“You’re still a stubborn, self destructive asshole!”

"There you go, we’re perfect for each other. I never should have kicked you out.”

“You kicked me out?! Oh, that’s rich.”

He moans, guiding you back down as you ride him perfectly into the mattress. “Well, you did… ah,” he winces as you bite down on his bottom lip, “You did live here in my house, so…”

“I could’ve lived in my own place… if you didn’t… mmm, call me every night and tell me to come over.”

“I’m needy, you know that.”

“You just wanted to fuck me, huh?” you mumble innocently, riding him harder, breasts bouncing as the bed creaks, “Wanted to hear me moan your name, wanted to feel my tight little cunt around your cock?”

“Yeah,” he rasps, biting his lip.

“You like this cunt, baby?”

“You know I do.”

“You gonna cum inside me?”

“Gonna fill you up, sweetheart.”

“Do it, _do it_…”

You tilt your head back as you reach your peak, and he exhales, moaning out your name as you clench around him, refusing to let up until he’s spent every last drop. He groans again when he’s done, and you get off of him, letting his softening cock slip out of you. He feels down, trying to tuck himself back up lazily.

“Just leave it out,” you mumble into the bed sheets.

“Mmm.” He drags a hand over his face. You smile as you feel his cum drip out of you, the first real smile you’d experienced since the two of you broke up. “If I just got you pregnant, or some shit…”

“I’m on the pill now.”

“Cause you fucked around when I kicked you out?”

“Cause I wanted to forget about you for a while when I left, thank you very much. Like you haven’t fucked thousands of girls since we ended it!”

“That’s different.” He looks over at you, and you look down at him. “Can we make up or something?” he murmurs. 

“I don’t know,” you sigh.

“Lily misses you.”

“Do you?”

“No. I hate you.” You both start to laugh, and he gets up. “I’m gonna fuckin’ kill Jeordie for this.”

“Same,” you mutter, grabbing your phone from your discarded pants to send a disapproving text to your friend.

“I wanted to kill you too.”

You blow him a kiss. “Feeling was mutual.”

He looks at himself in the mirror, smirking as he grazes his finger over the bite mark you left just under his lip. “Well. What doesn’t kill you, ’s gonna leave a scar.”


	23. Little Pistol (Ron Tully x Reader)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You travel to Stockton for a conjugal visit with Tully. The two of you have been apart too long for formalities.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for this request!

Tully had been on the boards for a visit for six months. There are a lot of things he can bribe the guards for, like rooms to talk business with his guys, private lines on the phone, and a general prison-wide acceptance that no one would fuck with him unless it really _was _the law. What he can’t bribe anyone for though, is a wait bypass for a conjugal visit. His name is on the list like the rest of them, and even though he’d pay a pretty penny to see you monthly, it’s just not something he can do.

Now, having waited quite a bit of time, Tully’s “good behavior” had paid off. The next day was his visit with you, which would last a day.

“You seem happy,” the guy behind him in the communal washrooms mentions. No one talks to Tully much, for fear of what he’d do to them if he wasn’t in the mood, but this guy was the prison idiot, and Tully didn’t mind his chatter now and then. The taller man is washing his face in the sink, shaving his growing facial hair a little and trimming his hair.

“I am.”

The guy smirks. “Can I ask why?”

Tully drags the plastic razor down his chin, inspecting himself. He didn’t want to shave it too close, since you always said you liked his stubble… liked the way it felt between your thighs. Tully’s small smile grows a little, and he dunks the razor in water. It had cost him a couple fifties to be allowed to clean up a little with actually helpful instruments of hygiene this morning. 

“I’m seeing my girl tonight.” He gestures to his things, and the guy goes over, finding a polaroid of you in a black bra and panties, posing on top of Tully’s bike.

“Shit. With a body like that, what makes you think she’s still your girl?” the guy chuckles. Tully doesn’t dignify the man with a look. 

“It’s not like that.” He takes some scissors from his sleeve, trimming his black hair close to his temple. “I know she’d die for me. And I’d die protecting her.” The guy’s still staring at the polaroid of you when Tully’s done his haircut. “Alright, put it the fuck down, or I'mma have you stabbed.”

He takes the photo, and feels himself stir already. His eyes run over your perfect tits, down your legs, to the thin black fabric covering that pussy he knows so well. He sets the photo that he’d touched himself to many times by the mirror, and checks his reflection. He’d never really considered himself to be handsome, which is why he became powerful instead, but you seemed to think he was the sexiest man alive. He didn’t mind that. 

“Lucky you get a visit,” the guy mutters. 

“I almost didn’t. See, you’re not supposed to get visits from anyone outside of family. Technically, I haven’t married (y/n) yet. But, I pulled some strings. ’S what I do.”

“Mm. I don’t have any girlfriends or anything. Last visit I got was my mom, back in ‘07. Got banned til the end of my sentence cause my mom tried to plant weed on me. Guess she likes the quiet around the house.”

Tully, not really listening, grunts in response. He then does up another button on his blue shirt, and looks down at the picture again, really studying it. He remembers the way you screamed his name while he fucked you over that motorcycle. He takes it as a personal challenge to raise even more hell tonight. 

—

You sit in the diner in Stockton, California. You’d traveled up here with a few of the guys who work for your boyfriend, since they had to do some work anyway, smooth some shit out before Tully caught wind of it and had their heads. They knew to take good care of you, or they’d pay for that with their life too. You yourself are about to go see Tully, and you can’t wait. It had been so long.

Dressed in a little white crop top, a short black skirt, and sunglasses, you’re feeling your best. You know ever since he got the news he’d been scheduled for a conjugal, Tully’s probably had tonight in mind day and night, and what you wear won’t alter the fact that he’s going to give you the best pounding you’ve ever taken. But you want to wow him too. He hasn’t seen you for the better part of a year, after all, and to get a real good reaction out of him, you need the element of surprise. 

“Want another milkshake, hun?” a kind, older waitress with smile lines and grey hair asks. You smile back.

“Love one.”

You tap your nails on the table, watching out the window at the people walking by in the heat. You’re used to living in Southern California, since Tully’s the shot caller and doesn’t go out on rides, but he conducts business up here in the northern part of the state sometimes. Liaisons, stuff like that. The county jail he does his time in is unfortunately pretty far away from the reclusive home you two share in San Diego. Still, you keep busy and make do while he’s gone, keep an eye on how things are run in his absence. It’s what you have to do to stay sane.

“Don’t mean to bother you. But can I ask what your tattoos mean?” the waitress asks, sliding you another of your favorite flavor of milkshake.

You glance down at your knuckles, which have T U L L Y tattooed across them, a letter per finger.

“My man,” you say wistfully.

“I’m sorry,” she says quickly, noticing the sorrow in your eyes, “Did he pass away?”

“No,” you smile, “He’s just away right now, doing time.”

“Shit, no kidding. My husband’s been in for two years now, serving another five. Kills me every day.”

You move your stuff to one side of the table. “Sit, if you want.” The lady checks her watch, and sits across from you. “I hate it,” you confess, “It’s the worst. It’s the life I chose to get involved in, but it’s rough when it actually comes back to hit you at night, when you don’t have their arms around you.”

“I know just what you mean, hun. Probably shouldn’t be saying this, but… my husband is an arms dealer, works in the gun trade. Under the table deals out in San Pedro, all that." 

"My Tully’s a shot caller,” you say, not elaborating any further on his gang or who he’s affiliated with. This lady seems nice, but you’re never sure who could be an undercover cop, or the wife of a rival gang member. 

“You’re visiting him, then?” she asks.

“Yes. Tonight.”

“Baby, you have the time of your life tonight, you hear me?”

“Oh, you know I will,” you giggle, “When he hasn’t seen me for a while, things get very physical.”

“I can imagine.” She winks. 

You hand her a Polaroid you’ve got in your leather jacket pocket; Tully’s got the other one from this day. In this one, you’re dressed in black panties and a black bra, and you’re sitting on Tully’s lap, straddling him. The photo shows the backside of you, showing off your backside, and Tully has got his face looking over your shoulder, glaring darkly as his fingers sink into the flesh of your ass. It’s a photo of the two of you that never fails to turn you on, especially recalling how hard he fucked you over his bike after this picture was taken. 

You sigh, twirling the straw. “He’s my ride or die… and I’m his forever girl.”

–

Finally, it comes time for the guards to collect Tully. They know exactly what he’s going to do to you, as they’re the ones who have had to listen to Tully groan your name every morning and night whenever he gets the urge.

“This has been a long time coming,” one guard sighs. 

“Just don’t make too much noise,” the other guard pleads. Tully glances at him.

“I don’t remember payin’ you off to tell me how to fuck my girlfriend.”

The guy concedes, keeping his mouth shut. They let him into the room, far away from the others and the best money can buy (he at least had _some _sphere of influence in this department), and they go to close the door.

“She’ll be in in a minute.” Tully undoes the top three buttons of his shirt, and waits.

—

You get a pat down in the lobby of the conjugal area. They take out a gold switchblade and a couple of metal rings, leaving your pockets empty. Then you’re ready to go in. The guards let you in, and you see Tully sitting on the bed. He looks up.

“Hey, baby.”

“Hey,” you grin. One of the guards steps in.

“24 hours, Tully. Make it count.” He shuts the door after himself, locking it, and you look around. It’s almost like a normal home– there’s a mini fridge, a bed, a TV, and a living area.

“I missed you,” you say, and walk over to him. He accepts you into his lap, and you cup his face, pressing your lips to his.

“So did I,” he murmurs against your lips. “You doing good? Looking after the boys, making sure they’re doing their jobs?” You nod. “Good. They’re a bunch of jokes when I’m not around.”

“Well, now that nobody’s around… am I correct in thinking you wouldn’t say no to a strip tease?” you ask, snapping the strap on your bra underneath your shirt.

“Yeah,” he nods, sitting back on the couch. You slowly take your shirt up over your head, watching as his eyes fall down to admire your breasts.

“You like that?” you murmur, bunching your hair up a little as you slide your fingers downward. 

“Thought of me while you did that the last few months?”

“Nuh uh,” you grin, “Trying to trick me? I know I can only cum when you tell me to.”

“That’s right,” he smiles fondly, watching your hips swing back and forth. You finally rub the finger between your legs, and get on the edge of the bed, pulling your panties to one side. You hear the low hitch in Tully’s breath, and you sink your fingers into yourself, loving the feel but craving the stretch of your boyfriend.

You dip your fingers in again, lips parting as you moan. “Gonna join in?”

“Right now I’m just going to sit here and watch, babygirl. Seeing you do it in person is a nice change. Your moans are fuckin’ beautiful, but a visual always helps.” He gives one of his dark smirks, and sits there, watching. You feel the heat rise even more as his eyes travel, your skin heating up just knowing he’s appreciating the show you’re putting on. You let his name escape your lips with a sigh. “My beautiful little slutty girl,” he murmurs, and unzips his pants as you watch in feverish arousal. He takes his cock out, and starts to pump it slowly in his hand while you watch, shoving your fingers deeper. Your eyes are trained on his fist, where it’s jerking up and down. He lifts his chin.

“Look at that,” he starts to stroke a little faster, “All you, baby.” You flip over, not reaching enough depth in this position, and sit on your fingers, letting them disappear deeper into your pussy. Tully sits forward, intense gaze trained, unblinking, on where your hips are slamming down. “You’re so fucking hot,” he whispers.

“Yeah?” You ride your fingers harder, “You like that? You like that, baby?”

“S good, sweetheart.” He moans, squeezing himself. “Fuckin’ tease.”

“Get over here and pound me then,” you say, licking your lips obscenely. He finally stands, and grabs you by your hair. You groan as he drags you over to the bed, where he shoves you down onto the soon-to-be-destroyed mattress.

“You wanna feel daddy’s cock?” he asks, and you crawl forward, stroking up the length of it. He lets you for a moment, reveling in the feeling of your hands on his dick again, but eventually urges you off again. He crawls onto the bed between your legs, and pushes your thighs far apart, exposing your soaking pussy to him.

“This is all mine,” he whispers, “You know this cunt belongs to me.” He hums. “I own a lotta things, and this here’s one of em.” 

“Yeah, daddy,” you breathe, and he seals his lips over you, upper lip teasing your clit while his tongue dips in and out of you. _Fuck._ One thing among many that can be said about Tully, is he knows how to eat you out spectacularly.

“That’s good, that’s good,” you start chanting, “Please… sir, please…”

He groans, and the vibrations make your clit throb. “Imma take good care of you, babygirl, don’t you worry,” he assures softly, eyes glowering up from between your legs, “Take good care of my girl. She deserves it. Deserves gettin’ fucked good too. Don’t you?" 

"Yeah…” you whine. 

“You’ve been a real good girl, waiting for daddy. Only cumming when he’s talking to you on the phone. You know the rules." 

"Daddy,” you gasp, feeling your orgasm build, “I-I have a confession.” Your voice sounds so small, and your tone is airy in your breathless state.

“Mmm? Tell me, sweetheart.”

“You won’t be mad?”

“That depends.” He strokes soothing hands up your calves, and you shudder, flashes of his punishments running through your head.

“I was… in the jacuzzi with the girls the other night. I was thinking of you, and… thinking of what you’d do if you were there. I was wearing your favorite bikini. The one that’s translucent, so you can see my nipples?" 

"Mmhmmm.”

“And…” You wiggle your hips, chasing your release at the mercy of Tully’s tongue. “And I… well, the jets just felt so good, I… mmm!”

“Tell daddy,” he encourages with a growl.

“I let the pressure make me cum in my swimsuit, imagining it was you.” You let out a moan as his tongue licks a stripe up from the base to the tip of your clit.

He hums. “It’s okay. It’s okay. I understand. Some things just can’t be helped. I know you tried.” You exhale, uncomfortable waves of arousal washing over you. You wish he’d fill you up. “I’m proud of you, you know.” You look down at him again. “You’re so brave. I’m in here, you’re all alone. I wish I could be there for you, remind you every day why you’ll always be mine.”

“You are there for me. When you can be. You bribe the guards with your hard earned cash to get ten minutes on a call with me, to check in, make sure I’m alright. You’re in here getting shit done, and I’m running things at home. It’s how we do it.”

“Mmyeah. But I’d much rather be back in the game than calling the shots in here. In a perfect world, nothing would stand between us. Two of us against the world.”

“Together as one,” you smile, arching your back.

Tully shares your smile, as he presses soft kisses all the way up to just barely graze your cunt again. “Against all others.” He nips at the dip in your hipbone. “Mm. Babygirl, when I’m out, I'mma do this… every night. That’s a motherfuckin’ promise.”

You grind your hips toward his mouth, and he holds them down firmly against the mattress as he launches a proper maneuver on your clit, making you cum in seconds. You ride it out, hands fisting in his hair. He crawls over top of you, staring down at you like he’s about to devour you. You don’t doubt that he is. 

You part your legs even more, and he picks them up, throwing them over his shoulder and holding your hips up. He guides himself to line up with your dripping cunt, and pushes into you easily with a low grunt, your first orgasm having slicked you up perfectly. Each following thrust is harder than the previous; Tully isn’t wasting time. Already sensitive, you feel the second orgasm building. Desperate, you run your hand through your hair, getting it out of your face.

“I need it, fuck Tully, I need your cock!” you practically shout, and his grunts increase in volume as he dedicates all his energy to making sure he uses you properly. “Fill me up with your cum, daddy?” you ask innocently.

“Oh, you know I will.”

“Fucking do it then.”

“You’re a mouthy one, sweetheart,” he moans, and he throws his head back, biting his bottom lip hard. “You test me.”

“You love it.” 

“I tolerate it… cuz I love you so fucking much… ohhff, shit…” 

“Look at me when you cum?” you gasp breathlessly. He obliges, jet black hair hanging and jolting with his tattooed body as he puts all his weight behind fucking you as deep as he can. He looks you in your eyes as your own eyelids droop in desire, and he gasps your name as you both reach your peaks together. 

You hum softly in contentment, and climb on top of his larger frame, laying on his chest. He puts an arm over you, body rising and falling with labored breath.

“What do you want to do now?” you tease. He looks down at you, brushing your matted hair aside affectionately. 

“We still got 23 hours left. You do the math.” 


	24. Like A Heretic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You know Manson from one (1) party, yet he feels the need to drunk text you his obscene propositions at 2 am on a Wednesday?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Era: The Pale Emperor
> 
> *FLUFF, NO SMUT* and gender neutral reader!

You collapse into the plush of your down comforter, feeling the fluffy feathers sink beneath you. Smiling to yourself, you clear the day away in your brain, bulldozing over every worry, publicity problem, or stressed manager that could be dealt with the next day. For now, you’re in your bed, and nothing can come between you and a peaceful night’s sleep. 

You cuddle into your pillow. The feeling you’ve got right now is comparable to a the perfect orgasm– you never want to leave this bed. Your mind starts to drift, and you picture yourself on a beach somewhere, where no one can reach you. No one… no one… except that bee buzzing in your ear.

Groggily, you open your eyes. That’s not a bee. It’s your phone. 

Dammit, why didn’t you put it on silent? You go to turn it off properly, but the text on your screen makes you hesitate. You blink a few times, squinting through the dark at your phone. Were you reading that right?!

_Manson: Hey (y/n) psssst. I’ve got a secret can I tell you the secret _

“What the fuck?” you mumble out loud, and sigh, turning on your bedside lamp. Manson? What… oh. _Oh, yeah._ About two months ago, you had attended a music awards event in New York, and had met a few new people. One of them had been Marilyn Manson. He had been a lot more down to earth than you had imagined he would be, and the two of you hit it off pretty well. 

It struck you as interesting as well, but he had followed you around that night like a lost puppy. He always wanted to be around you, and it had been him who had suggested you exchange numbers, maybe hang out, go see a movie or something. You had excitedly given him your number, but didn’t think much would come of it. He probably got lots of people's numbers, then forgot about them the next week. 

So why was he texting you at… 2:13 in the morning?! You stare at the same text again. 

_Manson: Hey (y/n) psssst. I’ve got a secret can I tell you the secret_

You bite your lip, and type out a quick text back.

_(y/n): Shoot._

His reply is almost immediate. 

_Manson: I wanted to say when I saw you and we hung out at radio city last month you were cute really sexy n beautiful ad I miss you :( :(_

You blush a little bit, but type back a cautious text. 

_(y/n): You feeling alright? _

Before you can hit send though, another text from him comes in.

_Manson: If you think I am drunk and handsome you are correct, i’m both_

You giggle a little, and sit up fully. Manson’s drunk texting you, telling you you’re cute? This couldn’t get any crazier if you made it up. 

_Manson: Do you know what sexting is? _

You raise your eyebrows. 

_(y/n): I’m familiar with it, yes. _

You bite your lip. Should you add a winky face? Before you can, he writes back. 

_Manson: what if i told you I wanted to lick your body ad probably do butt stuff with you too? _

You feel yourself heat up even more, and you don’t know whether to laugh or get aroused. 

_(y/n): You fucking with me, Manson?_

_Manson: I would like to fuck you, yes. _

_(y/n): So… tell me more, then. What else would you do to me?_

_Manson: Id cum on your chest_

_Manson: oops was that too far?_

_(y/n): No… go on. _

_Manson: maybe on your face then if you want that, I wanna be respectful _

_Manson: I’d also punish your sex hole. i’m really good at that_

_(y/n): You sound like a porn bot lol _

_Manson: dirty old man in your area looking for hot singles <3 that looks like a pointy dick_

You giggle, and are about to sign off so you can sleep for real, but he texts again with something that makes you pause. 

_Manson: Wanna cum over? _

You stare at the text, waiting to see if he’ll write again. You wait, and wait. Nothing else is coming in. You type out a few possible responses. Then you finally hit send on your last one, biting your lip. 

_(y/n)_: _What’s your address? _

Shit. Shit shit! What are you doing? Looking back at your bed though, you can’t deny you feel a thrill. This is the shit you moved here to LA to do. 

—

Pulling up to Manson’s address, the place is just like him– not what you were expecting. It’s a dark apartment above a liquor store, with black out curtains covering the window. You walk over to the stairs, and catch the door when someone walks out. Heading inside, you look down at your phone, and find his number. Apartment 15. 

You knock softly, and wait. When he doesn’t come to the door, you shoot him off another text. 

_(y/n): I’m at your door, don’t leave me hanging or I’ll leave you with a hard on_

He doesn’t respond, and you hear a moan inside. You frown, and try the door handle– it’s open. You walk in, forgetting momentarily where you are, and see that the place is a relative mess. Piles high of books, records and movies are stacked along the walls, and there’s like, one dying plant by the darkened window. It’s laughable to assume the poor thing gets any sun, which is also a statement that could be applied to the rock star you’d come to sleep with. 

A bunch of album artwork for his new record, the Pale Emperor, is laid out on his table as well. You take a quick glance at it, before dropping your jacket. 

“Hey,” you call out, “I’m taking my top off! You’re gonna miss it if you don’t come find me!” You hear the moan again, and walk down the hallway. “Oh, fuck.” 

“’M alright…” He’s on the floor, in a puddle, four small cats surrounding him. One rusty colored one is lapping from the puddle. Was this a Jimmi Hendrix situation???

“Please don’t tell me that’s piss,” you mutter, “Cause I am not cleaning that up.” 

One of his four cats meows loudly. Manson just laughs. “It’s vodka. I slipped and broke the bottle.” 

“That I can clean up,” you nod, but first, you help him to his feet. He wobbles a little, and falls into you. Pinned against the wall, his lips are inches from yours… until his head thumps beside yours, lips pressed into your neck. He’s so fucking gone. You look around, and spot the washroom down the hall the other way. You help him slowly, and he keeps talking the whole way. 

“You’re so fuckin’ gorgeous,” he mumbles, “My brain camera remembered you were hot but I didn’t remember you being this hot… _mmhm_…”

“You still down to fuck me?” you tease, helping him sit on the edge of his bathtub. His eyes widen a bit as he licks his lips and points a swaying finger. 

“Baby I was born ready to fuck. I came out of the womb with an erection.”

You cringe. “That’s… a very disturbing mental image.” 

“You know what else is disturbing? My DICK.” He frowns a little, nose scrunching up. “But not for… it’s not disturbing, it’s just disturbing how big it is… or…”

“Stop, you’re turning me on,” you smirk sarcastically, and get a towel, dabbing his face down with cool water. “How does that feel?”

“Oh baby, you feel so good, fuck,” he moans, and you blink. God damn, he really is wasted. 

“Good to hear.” You plant a kiss on his cheek as you sponge down his arms, and he purrs like a big happy cat, nuzzling into your chest. 

“Do that again?” You smile, and lean in, kissing him again, this time closer to his mouth. Then you kiss him again, and again, each one earning more praise from the god of fuck before you. “Mm yeah– oh yeah– yeah yeah, right there– yeah yeah right there…” He grins, eyes closing. “_Mmm_, delightful.” He blinks up at you, swiping a hand across his smudged eyeliner. “Will you… be my friend?” 

“Sure. Friends to lovers is always a fun way to go.” He seems genuinely happy with this. “You know, you’re sexy too,” you say, helping him take his shirt off. You glance down his chest and stomach at his tattoos, trying to focus on the project at hand instead of actually picturing riding him right now. “I thought so the night I met you at Radio City, and I think so now.” 

“Really?” he hums, reaching up in his stupor to put a hand against his chin. He suddenly seems bashful, and realizing how vulnerable he’s made himself, hides half of his face. “Even without my makeup?” 

“Definitely. I happen to think you’re beautiful.” He gives a genuine beam, a bright toothy smile most people never get to see.

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not! In fact, if you weren’t absolutely shit hammered right now, I’d probably want you balls deep.” 

He groans. “Fuck it if I’m drunk, that’s when I’m in my strongest form!” He slips a little, steadying himself on the toilet as he stands. 

“I would disagree with that, but…”

“Besides, with all those compliments, you’re… you’re making my dick hard, see? And now it’s… ahh, it’s gonna be mad at me if I don’t… you know, fuck you, so…”

“Shh, for now try to walk straight.” 

“Where are my asshole cats?” 

“They were all watching you describe your dick to me,” you say, and he wags a finger their way. 

“Dooon’t listen to daddy, my loves. Nonono. _Bad_. This is grown up human people talk!”

You giggle. “You must like cats.”

“I am a cat person, I love cats. That’s why I don’t give it doggy style, cause I’m a cat man. The crazy cat man. That sounds like a serial killer…”

You giggle, and guide him back down the hall. “Where’s the bedroom?” He lifts his chin to gesture to it. 

“Last door on the right.” You help him into bed, and he tosses a pillow at a tall vase in the corner, sending it shattering. “Goddamn ghosts in my house, watching me sleep,” he slurs, and points wildly to his closet. “The sex toys are in there, if you wanna get yourself started…”

You smile, politely neglecting the sex closet of the rock star you’d been booty called by. Masturbating in said rock star’s home while he’s passed out shitfaced doesn’t look good for anyone involved. 

“Goodnight Manson,” you sing song, and shut his door. Pressing your back against it, you exhale. _What just happened?_

You carefully walk over to the spilled vodka, and check the shards of glass. Thankfully no blood anywhere– that would have been even worse to clean up. You grab a rag from the kitchen, and start mopping up the floor. One of his cats walks over from the bathroom, and starts to rub against your ankle.

“Well, hi. What’s your name, love?” You check the tag. “William. Very handsome name. Handsome just like your dad.” You sigh, as William follows you around the apartment. You feel like you shouldn’t be here anymore. It was a mistake– he was obviously too drunk to do anything to or with you tonight. You should just leave. Yeah. Go back home, forget this ever happened and… maybe check in with him tomorrow morning, see how bad his hangover is. If he responds. 

Just as you’re about to leave though, you hear his slurred voice call from the bedroom. “(y/n)–!” 

You hesitate, then walk back in, shutting the door. You walk over to his room, and open the door. “Yeah?”

“…Get into bed with me? Please? Wanna hold someone…” 

You look behind you, and then to him again, where he’s laying, tangled in his limbs, in the large bed. You nod, and close the door to a crack, coming in. You unzip your hoodie, and before you can come to your senses, you get into one side of his king sized bed. You hear him breathing softly, and smile a little at the sudden intimacy of it all, turning over in fetal position. Not how you expected this night to turn out, but it might be even better. 

Just as you’re falling asleep in the bed of the Antichrist, you feel arms wrap around you from behind, and feel his head in the nape of your neck. Beginnings of rare stubble scratch your skin pleasantly. 

“This an okay alternative to butt stuff?” he mumbles, and you reach up to hold his wrists against you. 

“It’s perfect.” 


	25. You're So Vain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You wear a Rob Zombie dress to your boyfriend’s double headliner concert. This article of clothing has a certain effect on him, and it’s not good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Era: Heaven Upside Down
> 
> In the same timeline as "Just For Me."

His eyes meet yours through the mirror as he shadows his eyes. You can tell immediately upon your entrance into the room that he’s not pleased, and you can’t wait to hear why this time. 

“What’s that?”

You look at your boyfriend, to see where he’s looking now. His eyes are on your clothing. “What do you think it is? It’s a dress." 

"Don’t need your attitude. Is that really what you’re wearing? For the show?”

You sigh. He always has a way of making you feel special. “Yes.” You spin around in your black and red dress, adorned with symbols, splatters and big “Rob Zombie” logos on it. “I think it’s perfect, since you’re playing the show with Rob, Twins of Evil, yada yada." 

"I’m sure Rob’s going to love that,” Manson says in a low voice, and the undertone of irritation does not go unnoticed by you. He sucks in his cheekbones to dust them with a powder puff of blue, and you dissect the darkness in his eyes. You can’t say you didn’t know this was going to happen, when you wore a dress with his co-headliner’s name all over it. You know how possessive your boyfriend can get. 

Provoking? Of course that’s not what you’re trying to do…

You smirk, walking over to smooth your hands down his chest. “Jealous?”

“I’m not jealous. But you’ve got his name emblazoned over your tits.”

“And whose tits are they?”

“Mine.”

“The correct answer there would have been "yours,” but the jury will accept it.“

Manson grumbles some more. "When did you even get it?" 

"I ordered it.”

“With my money?”

“Look, I’m supporting my friend. He’s in the band.”

“In case you don’t remember, Ginger was _my _drummer for 15 years.”

“Well, he’s not anymore.”

“What do you want me to say?! I’m not gonna wear a dress with you on it! I’ve got you on my body every other night of the year, I don’t need it tonight.”

“You don’t think I’m going to fuck the shit out of you tonight?" 

"Not at the rate you’re going,” you tease. 

“Watch yourself.”

“Make me.” It’s a clear invitation, up in the air. 

Manson looks like he’s about to literally growl, but turns back to finish his makeup, sulk, and down his three “complimentary” glasses of stadium beer. It’s not worth it to start anything with you ten minutes til showtime, and you have to say, you’re disappointed he doesn’t make a sport of it. 

When your boyfriend goes out on stage first, Zombie’s band comes in through the backstage, along with your best friend from when you two worked in Vegas together. “Kenny!” you grin, jumping into his arms. He picks you up in a hug, that drummer strength useful in boosting you up. 

“Ah, (y/n)! Glad you could come on this leg of the tour. I was so excited when I heard we were playing with Manson again, couldn’t wait to see you.”

“We’re definitely meeting under calmer circumstances this time,” you smile, arms wrapped around him tight.

He laughs, remembering all the backstage shenanigans from the late 90s touring days with you along for the ride. “Yeah, it’s much more chill with Twiggy and Pogo gone. And Manson’s toned down a little I guess.”

You cock your head. “In a manner of speaking.”

“It’s kind of nice. It’s like we’ve grown up, you know?”

“I don’t think Manson will ever grow up,” you laugh. Ginger pulls away to look at your dress, finally noticing it.

“That’s super cool… what did he think of it?”

You giggle. “What do you think he thought of it?”

Ginger shakes his head, remembering the fiery look of pure rage his ex boss had given that one guy from the pit at that one concert in 1999. The guy’s never gonna change, I swear.” 

Rob comes in, punching the air. “Ready to fucking ROCK!?”

"Totally!” John calls from a distant room.

“Woah,” Rob says, “You must be (y/n). Ginger’s told me all about you.”

“All bad?”

“Jesus, yeah. Heard about the time you got plowed on stage in ‘99. Typical Manson. Cool dress.” Rob looks at your outfit. “Really cool. Hey, what’s up with your bf?”

“What? What about him?”

“He’s crashing and burning out there. Crowd’s pissed, whiiiich means I’m gonna have to save the show.”

“Shit…”

“Bad day?”

You sigh, and walk out to the wing. Rob’s right. The crowd is practically rioting, and they’re not the only ones who are pissed. Manson seems to be out of his mind, singing Kill4Me with a particularly hard edge and apparently a version that skips every third lyric. He then launches into an overly aggressive rendition of The Beautiful People.

You know exactly what this is about.

Rob jostles your shoulder as he prepares to go out, wishing you luck when you should really be the one wishing _him _luck. Ginger gives you a low five, and you take a deep breath as Manson comes stumbling off stage, makeup trailing down his face and neck from the water he always spits upward.

“Could you be anymore of a child about this whole thing?” you demand, crossing your arms. He points a wavering finger at you, letting the security carry him properly toward the hall.

“Don’t. Even.”

“Oh, don’t what? Don’t what? I can’t wear a dress now?”

“Wear whatever the fuck you want, I don’t care.” Piggy D hurries between you two awkwardly to run out on stage.

“You are being such an asshole.”

“Whatever. You wanna misinterpret how I… what I’m…”

“I know you, you’re jealous.”

He shoves the security off, coming back over. “I’m not fucking jealous.”

“It’s a dress. What, you think I wanna fuck Rob?!”

This time, he does growl. His tall, imposing form advances on you, and despite his debauched appearance, the intense darkness in his eyes is unmistakable for anything other than hunger. Real fear flickers through you for a split second.

“Wanna try that, little girl? Hm?” You shiver, breath quickening, but you’ve known your boyfriend for far too long, and you’re not about to back down now. You want him hard and fast, and it’s your turn to get him back for making you wait.

“Maybe I do,” you whisper defiantly. That does it. He tears the straps on your dress. You moan, letting him reach in and grab your thighs, and lift you against the wall with ease, pinning you there. 

“You want me to drag you out on that stage, and fuck you in front of the crowd again?” 

“You only teased me in front of the crowd,” you have the nerve to reply, “You never actually fucked me out there in front of anyone.” Manson holds you by the neck as he roughly marks you down your jawbone. 

“That’s because you’re mine,” he mutters, hurrying to get his dick out, “You’re fucking mine. Only person gets to see these tits, see this pussy? Is me.” He leans in to hiss: “Only one who gets to see you gush is me.” 

You can’t protest, caught up in a rush of arousal as his stage pants rub dangerously close to your clit. You grind your hips forward, desperately seeking his touch. You’ve never wanted him so bad, his stupid fucking feral expression covered in pink and blue gloss driving you wild. 

“Fuck me,” you gasp, not stopping to wonder if the roadies were around or minding their own business.

“Oh, I’m going to, baby,” Manson whispers, finally getting himself out of his briefs, “You need to remember who you fuckin’ belong to.” He tugs your hair back sharply, and sinks his teeth into your shoulder. You scream from the shock of it, and wetness starts to drip down your thigh.

“Ah,” you hiss, pussy clenching desperately to be filled, “Do it again.”

Manson bites down your flesh to the tips of your nipples, leaving pink marks across your chest. He reaches up, letting your leg fall slightly as he slips two fingers inside you. 

You gasp again, louder this time over the beat of Rob performing Superbeast, and clutch tighter to your handsy boyfriend. He comes back up to suck your neck, nipping slightly at the sensitive spots where he marked you before.

“Fuck me, come on,” you chant, “Fuck me like you did that day.” He grabs you again by the neck, dragging you in for a rough, sloppy kiss. A hard pound, and your back hits the wall in rhythm with his body. He doesn’t wait for you to adjust, and you both know you don’t need him to. He slides in deep, with you very ready to take him, and he pulls back easily before thrusting back in harder, the weight of his body pounding against you heightening the thrusts. His belt buckle jangles with his every movement. 

“How much do you love this cock?”

“I love it, I want it–”

“Can Zombie do this?" 

"No–”

“Could he make you cum like this?”

You whine. “Only you can make me cum." 

"That’s right. Don’t ever forget it, or I’ll fucking remind you again.” He kisses you again, all sloppy tongue, and your hair falls forward between you two as he puts every ounce of effort into bouncing you on his cock. He thrusts one more time with a low grunt, and the pain in your scalp as he tugs again sends you over the edge into a much needed climax. He freezes too, deep inside of you, and you feel him finish.

Manson lets you down, groaning as he rubs the sweat and shiny makeup off his face. Adrenaline shooting through him from both his show and the sex, he’s spoiling for a fight as was usual in these moods. He glares at a stage tech who had been coiling ropes. “Fuck you staring at?” The poor guy looks down in terror, carrying on with his job. _Yep, Ginger was right,_ you think with a smile._ He’s never gonna change. No matter how long it’s been, he’s still the same Manson you’re stuck with. _

Manson zips up his pants again and unbuttons his restricting black stage vest. Breathless and rubbing your hands around and down your boyfriend’s chest, you pout at your ruined dress in the mirror, straps dangling down your arms. 

“Look what you did to the dress, baby.” 

“Looks better this way. Now you can’t see his name, you can just see your tits,” he smiles lazily, sucking on his bottom lip lasciviously. 

“You’re a dirty old man, always looking at my tits.” 

“What am I supposed to do? They’re tits, they’re attached to your chest, and I think you’re hot.” 

You hide your flushed smile as you turn your nose up, sighing for show. “You do realize it’s not normal that the best sex we have is when you’re jealous.”

“Since when are we normal?” He looks at you through the mirror, tired and grinning. “And I told you. I’m not fucking jealous." 


	26. You and Me and the Devil Makes Three: Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Both you and Brian can’t get the substitute teacher off your mind. Thankfully, Brian needs some extra help before an upcoming exam, and your regular teacher still hasn’t come back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Era: Spooky Kids and Heaven Upside Down

You bring your lips to your boyfriend’s, lazily making out after an hour of stressing the springs in his mattress. 

A KISS record plays in the corner of his room. The afternoon sun seeps in over the countless Judas Priest and Nine Inch Nails posters all over the walls through the blinds that you’ve kept unturned. Both of you like the thrill of knowing Brian’s Christian neighbors might see you and your “filthy sex acts” again. Barb, Brian’s mother, hadn’t been too pleased after receiving that phone call, but Brian’s dad Hugh found it quite funny.

His parents liked you, called you a sweet girl. They don’t know much about Brian, and they don’t make much of an effort to—they know he’s into some dark music and he has a band, but they don’t know he’s interested in guys too, and they don’t know how far he wants to take his musical persona.

You’re also anything but sweet, but Barb and Hugh are well meaning, and you love them to death, always appreciative of the cake Barb feeds you when you visit the house. You think the two of them have some kind of idea that since Brian is almost finished high school, he’d take you somewhere and settle down with you. Neither of you want to settle down, but as far as either of you have shared, you have no plans of breaking up after grad.

You move your kisses down to Brian’s neck, and he keens under the attention, before reaching up to pull you back to his lips.

“I want you again,” you whisper, and Brian stares up at you.

“We just went four times, you brat.”

“But I’m _horny_.”

“And I’m soft, roll offa me. Gonna have to… watch some porn or something to get hard again…”

“This is better than porn,” you grin, unhooking your bra, and he pauses in his act of drinking down his bedside water glass, smiling too.

“Yeah, you’re right,” he laughs, and smoothes his hands up your rib cage to cup your breasts and fondle them. You lean down to drag them against his bare chest, and his hands move down to once again get himself ready to fuck again.

“So. We gonna talk about what happened on Friday?”

Brian’s breath hitches as he jacks himself to hardness again. “Do you want to?”

“I certainly think it raises some new… things, that we’re both obviously into.” Brian flushes a little, and you grin, leaning down to kiss his forehead. “Hey. You know you can be comfy with me.”

Brian nods, thrusting up into you finally with a hiss. “It was hot… the stuff he did.”

“I know,” you breathe, shuddering as you slide back down over him, “I just wanted the two of you to double team me forever.”

“So is this a thing, then?” Brian whispers, “Like, a third person?”

“I don’t know,” you admit, “We could explore a polyamorous relationship. But for now, I’m okay with secret threesomes involving hot teachers.”

“You think he’s still there?” 

“I think before he left on Friday, he mentioned he’d be around for another week. Mrs. Nordman wasn’t just hungover, she had the flu or something. Why?”

“I mean… we’ve got that English exam coming up soon.”

You smile. “We could use the extra help, hm?” He groans at that, pushing up into you harder, and you tilt your head back, riding him into his bed.

—

At school on Monday, you meet Brian at the front doors. He’s standing with Daisy, waiting for his friend to finish smoking, and doodling something on his hand. You see it’s a bunch of needles and lollipops.

“You know, you should’ve been an artist,” you smile, taking his hand.

“I am an artist. Different kind.”

Pogo approaches, swinging himself up onto the railing. “Morning, you sad fucks. How’re the losers today?”

“Depressed,” Daisy answers.

“Good to hear. I myself am in a fucking marvelous mood, seeing as I banged not one, not two– but THREE chicks this weekend at a college tit party. THE MAD CLOWN HITS HOME AGAIN!” He lets loose his usual flurry of crazy laughter, the sound that could tell anybody the bald student was coming from a mile away.

“How’d you manage that?” Brian mutters, amused.

“Sorry, Mr. Big Dick, some girls have refined taste, unlike (y/n) or Mr. Manson in there, don’t argue, I know you fucked him.” He pauses his manic rocking, leaning forward. “I also told them I was in a wildly successful rock band.”

“There’s the kicker,” you nod.

“I did not fuck Mr. Manson,” Brian protests. Everyone turns to look at him, and he smirks your way. “He fucked me.” Laughter erupts.

“No smoking on school property, you goth weirdos,” some kiss-ass cheerleader snaps as she walks past, and Pogo catapults Brian’s pen at her head.

“We’re gonna be late, hurry up.” Brian nudges Daisy.

“This is my last one, and I’m too broke to afford another pack until I get my next paycheck,” Daisy complains, savouring another drag.

“Here, lemme have a puff,” Pogo says, motioning for it. Daisy passes it over, and Pogo flicks it into the grass, pulling everyone inside. “Problem solved!” 

You giggle as Daisy shakes his head, and all of you turn when you hear screaming. There’s Jeordie, running toward the school like an idiot.

“I’m gonna make it! I’m gonna make it!” he’s shouting, then the bell goes. He tosses his backpack to the ground, kicking it. “SHIT!”

—

It’s an uneventful Monday, until the last class. When you get in and sit down, Mr. Manson is at the front of the class already, writing the day’s class plan out. Today, he’s dressed in a black button up, with a black vest over top of black pants. His hair is brushed back in a fairly respectable style, and… he turns around. His lips today are a soft coral pink, with black and blue eyeshadow. Brian stares at him, in awe once again at the man’s swaggering confidence and style. Why is it that with bisexuality, it’s always a question of if he wanted to _be _the other guy, or be _in _the other guy? _Or have the guy in him, as the case may be. _

“Alright. Before we start, does anyone have any questions about today’s makeup?” Manson’s tone is playful, and a light titter of laughter comes from the students. He grins. “Alright. You sure?” More laughter. “Okay. Today, we’ll be covering a new chapter of literary theory, and applying it to the first act of Hamlet.”

His dark eyes sweep the classroom as he marks off attendance, and when they come to rest on you, he looks up. “Is there a reason why you and Miss (y/l/n) were late today, Mr. Warner?” Your entire friend group looks at the two of you. Your boyfriend just shrugs. 

“Yeah, there was a reason.” You raise an eyebrow right back with a smirk, and Brian leaves it at that. You’re surprised when Manson accepts this without a cheeky little order to see him after class, but that’s fine. Brian has an excuse to see him anyway.

While Mr. Manson is talking, Brian writes out some lyrics for a new song he and the Spooky Kids have been working on. He nudges you, and taps the paper, which has a verse written out.

_VCRs and Vaseline_

_TV fucked by plastic queens_

_Cash in hand and dick on screen_

_(who said god was ever clean)_

He’s drawn a big question mark under it, so you give a little check mark on the paper, with the note:

_Hot._

“I know this shit is boring, but pay attention,” Manson says from the front of the classroom, glaring daggers at you two. 

“Imagine that lipstick all over my naked body,” you whisper in his ear. Brian glares at you.

“Stop trying to get me hard in class.”

“Why?” you tease.

“Cause it’s fucking working.”

“Do you one of you guys have an eraser?” Jeordie whispers (far too loudly) from behind you. You pass him back yours, and look at him sternly.

“Don’t pick it apart like you did all my other ones.” 

“What did I just say?” Manson snaps from the front of the class.

“We were just—!” you try to protest.

“No talking. Last warning.”

You and Brian exchange looks. He’s in a mood today, and you can’t wait to see how the two of you can test him even more after class.

When the class is finished, you all wait until the rest of the students are gone. Pogo looks back at you two from the door, making obscene blow job gestures. Mr. Manson doesn’t look up from the desk.

“Did you need something, Mr. Bier?”

“Not me!” Pogo snickers, dashing off to go catch up with Daisy and Jeordie.

“Mr. Manson?” Brian asks, “I need a little bit of help with studying for the upcoming exam. I dedicate a lot of time to my band, and… don’t study as much as I should.”

“Mm. And (y/n)? You just gonna watch your boyfriend… ask for help?” Manson asks. 

“I might learn a few things too, by sticking around,” you say, and lean forward against your desk. Manson’s eyes roam down to your cleavage, and he closes his book, getting up. He walks over to the door, locks it, and comes back over.

“The English exam. Yeah. As you know, I don’t know much about your curriculum, or really, about the exam itself.” 

“Doesn’t mean you can’t _try_ to help us out,” you say. “Please sir? We _really_ need help.” Mr. Manson looks at you, blue and black shadow making his hooded eyes seem supernatural.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Brian walks over to his desk, chin jutted out in confidence that will be lost as soon as Manson looks him in the eye. Sure enough, when the substitute gives your boyfriend one of his looks up and down, sweeping his entire body as if he’s a meal about to be devoured, Brian shudders. But he’s not about to lose his cool.

“See… I don’t get the whole psychoanalytic theory,” Brian says, putting the book down in front of Mr. Manson, “I don’t see how it applies to Hamlet.”

“Of course you pick the Freudian thing.” He sighs. “Well first, you have to understand psychoanalysis.” Manson looks over to you pointedly. “I’m sure you know all about Freud and his phallic symbols. You two had a lot of fun drawing them on your notes last Friday.” 

Brian laughs a little at that. Wrong move. Manson gets up, and in one quick stride, he has your boyfriend pushed down and bent over the desk, ass up.

“What the fuck?” Brian mutters, but you can hear the whine at the end of his protest. Your legs rub together as your finger grazes your lower lip… you want to see how this turns out.

“Here’s what I’m gonna do,” Manson says slowly, “I’m gonna help you two, since you fuck around in class all the time and never pay attention.” He leans in close to Brian, and your boyfriend glares up at him for holding him in such a vulnerable position. Manson just smirks, and gets out a ruler from the desk. “Our angel over there is gonna answer some questions of mine, baby. Got it?”

“What do you—?” A sharp slap echoes, as Manson hits the desk with the ruler hard.

“You say yes sir, and no sir, or this desk will be that pretty little ass. Understood?”

“Yes sir,” Brian breathes, laying his face down on the desk. You raise an eyebrow, spreading your legs just a bit.

“You really have enough confidence in me that I know these answers?” you grin.

“Nah. I’m counting on you not knowing a single one, baby girl,” Manson smiles, and traces the ruler up Brian’s back. “But try your best. He’s counting on you.” Manson gets the ruler ready again. “Tell me what the basis of psychoanalytic theory is.”

“It’s a theory that draws from psychoanalyzing the behavior of the characters in the… in the story,” you say, eyes trained on Brian.

“Good start,” Manson nods, rubbing his hand up Brian’s back, “Saved you this time, sweetheart.” Brian makes a noise, akin to a moan, and Manson looks at you again, expectantly, from the depths of that eyeshadow. “What are some examples?”

“There’s… a response to modern day literature from a new and improved perspective.”

“Wrong,” Manson says, “That’s postmodernism." 

“Aw. Guess that must’ve slipped my mind.” You shift in your seat, reaching down to touch yourself. Manson sees this out of the corner of his eye, and lifts his chin. 

"Mr. Warner?”

Brian obediently pulls down his leggings just enough. Not satisfied with this, Manson pulls them down to his knobby knees, and hits him hard with the ruler. Brian’s hips rut against the desk, and your pussy clenches as you rub faster circles.

“Again, sir,” Brian whimpers.

“You want another one?” Manson asks.

“Yes, sir.”

“(y/n)… your boy here’s a bit of a slut.”

“I’d have to agree,” you grin, head rolling back as a moan is drawn from your throat.

“I guess I should know that by now. Have you ever tried fucking him?”

Brian’s breath hitches, and you think about this. “He’s never asked.”

“Imagine how that’d feel, hm?” the teacher whispers in Brian’s ear, “Her fingers inside of you… filling you up. You like that?”

“Fuck, fuck,” Brian groans, hips pushing forward against the desk. He’s painfully hard.

“Gonna cum in your pants?” Manson rasps.

“No…” Brian clenches his jaw. “Ugh…”

“What if she fucked you with three fingers? Spreading this perfect ass wide open?” he continues to tease, snarling, “What if I did? You like the pain, don’t you? It turns you on.” Manson spanks him again, harder, and you can see the red imprint he’s left.

“Yeah…” Brian moans, his usual grumble raising in pitch. “I want you both to fuck me.”

“First, you get to watch.” Mr. Manson looks over to you, and beckons. You make a show of teasing back, mouthing _‘me?’_ Before Manson has a chance to threaten, you stand, walking over to the teacher. He stands a full few feet taller than you, the height difference still as hot as it was in the washroom the other day. He takes you by the shoulders, and brings his lips to yours. The kiss is sloppy and heated. You moan, sliding your hand down to cup his cock through his black slacks. You can feel the hefty erection respond to your touch, but you want to feel it inside you, fucking you. Brian watches, and reaches down to give himself some relief. 

“Ah ah,” you break away from the kiss to say, “Someone’s being naughty.” Brian shoots you a glare for ratting him out, and you blow your boyfriend a kiss as Manson turns to look at him.

“Do I have to tie you up, baby boy? Or can you stop those hands from wandering, hmm?” Hearing that in Manson’s deep growl is such a turn on. You pull him back to you.

“Let him stay like that. If you spank him again, he’s gonna cum all over the desk.”

“Disgusting,” Manson chastises, licking his lips, “Filthy filthy, Mr. Warner.”

“At least I didn’t take out my cock in class and start stroking it for you to see,” Brian mouths off.

“I’m sure you would’ve loved to do that,” you smirk, going back to stroking Mr. Manson through his pants.

“Mm. Yeah. Bet you would’ve loved to take it out, show everyone how hard you were. How ready you were for your girlfriend and your fucking teacher to take turns on you.”

"I…” Brian groans.

“Use your words, slut.”

“Yeah,” he breathes, “I might… I don’t know, get embarrassed, but–”

“Sluts don’t get embarrassed,” Manson says sharply. “Besides, as a big rock and roll singer, I’d imagine that you do much worse onstage. Or am I wrong?”

“Tell him all the shit you’ve done onstage,” you moan.

Brian shifts his hips, recalling everything he’d done during a show. Mr. Manson was right– when he was onstage, it was as if he became a different person. A persona. Someone darker, maniacal even. Someone who’s willing to do anything.

“I’ve fucked (y/n) onstage,” he growls. “Fucked her til her tight little cunt couldn’t take it anymore.”

Mr. Manson takes his cock out of his pants, starts stroking it himself as you lay back on a desk in front of him. You watch his cockhead disappear in his fist with every stroke, licking your lips. 

“What else?”

“I stripped her down naked in front of everyone… and ate her pussy.”

“Oh god,” you whine, picturing that night. You had both been so high you had forgotten there was even an audience. 

“That must have felt good.” Manson looks to you.

“It did. It did, and I love it,” you murmur, glancing down to your exposed breasts, “Just like him. I wanna be filled by you, sir. Just like Brian fills me up.”

Brian rolls his hips against the desk as Mr. Manson slots himself between your legs, dragging his cock between the folds of your pussy. “So fuckin’ wet. It’ll be so easy to get into you, baby girl.”

“Please, Mr. Manson,” you moan, “I need you.”

“Fuck her,” Brian gasps out, “She’s such a fucking cockslut, she needs it.” You nod. Manson reaches his hand up to cup one of your breasts as he slides in, filling you to the hilt. 

“Oh god,” you manage out, hands grabbing at the edges of the small desk. Manson’s cock isn’t as long as Brian’s, but it’s thicker, so thick you can feel the pain of the stretch. 

“Fuck,” Brian whines, watching Manson pull out almost fully then pound back into you. He’s frustrated—he can’t touch himself, and his cock is heavy and weeping against the desk. He could cum from any little touch at this point.

“If you even think about touching your cock, the punishment will be unimaginable,” Manson growls to your brat of a boyfriend. Brian groans in complaint, resting his head against the desk as he continues to rock his hips and watch. “Tell me more about how you fuck (y/n),” Manson says, thrusting in hard. The desk skids back a couple of inches, and you gasp. “Ah, nope. The principal could still walk by, baby girl. Don’t want him to hear the three of us acting out our own little porno, do you?”

“No, sir.”

“No. That’s right. Mr. Warner? You were saying?" 

"I fuck her all the time,” Brian says, words tumbling out of his mouth as he loses his grip. “We fuck between classes, before class, after class. She always wants my dick.”

"Yeah?” Mr. Manson asks, humming low in his chest. “Seems like you just can’t get satisfied baby, hm?”

“I get satisfied,” you reply, grinding your hips down obscenely, “I just love his cock so much that I want it all the time. I love feeling full.”

“Why don’t we make good and sure you’re nice and full then?” Manson beckons Brian over, not stopping his thrusts for a second. Brian’s surprised for a moment that he gets to move or do anything, but quickly complies. Manson’s belt jangles as he grunts, balls slapping your ass. “Give our baby girl a mouthful.”

Your eyes light up, and Brian’s lips quirk up. He loves watching you get used, and being a part of it is almost too much for him. He stands, and gets over top of your face, willing himself not to blow the minute he pushes between your pretty pink lips.

“Lemme see that nice cock, baby boy,” Manson rasps. His breath hitches when Brian strokes his fist all the way up the length, over the head, and back down. “Mmm, perfect. Give her some, she looks thirsty.”

“Take it, baby,” Brian whispers, biting his lip as he smacks his cock against your lips, “C'mon, you know you want it.”

“You know her safe word?” Manson mutters. Brian nods. You open wide for your boyfriend, and he slides his cock into your mouth, stopping before it hits the back of your throat. He raises his eyebrows down to you, and you nod again, feverishly. It’s almost too much, the older man fucking you into the desk so hard and your boyfriend using your mouth to get off. But you love the thrill, and you’re getting closer to your climax every second.

“You’re doing so good,” Mr. Manson says to you, stroking down your pelvic bone to caress your stomach, your clit, down to your inner thighs. Your hips buck. “Shhh. Taking us so good, sweetheart.”

“Isn’t it "so well?’ You are an English teacher, right?” Brian asks, grinning. Mr. Manson shoots him a look daring to go any further with that. Brian knows his place, casting his eyes downward.

“You like to piss people off, don’t you?” Manson asks.

“Yeah. It’s part of my, uh… my thing.”

“Your thing right now is to quit being a smart ass, fuck your girlfriend’s mouth, and do what your told.”

Brian sucks his cheekbones in, biting his bottom lip hard as he feels his cock throb. “Yes, sir!” He gives a sarcastic mock salute with a big dumb grin, and that does it.

“Back over the desk.”

“What?!” Brian’s eyebrows furrow angrily.

“You heard me. Get back. Over. The desk. _Now_.”

Brian whines, and removes himself from your mouth. As he’s walking back over though, the fearless streak continues. He fondles Mr. Manson’s bare ass as he walks by, clucking his tongue. “Damn, daddy. Great ass, for an old man.”

You smirk, knowing it’ll get a rise out of the teacher. But he just goes back to fucking you– albeit much faster.

“Oh… oh yeah. Oh god,” you hiss, trying still to keep it as quiet as possible. Mr. Manson’s short black hair falls from his coiffed mohawk and into his eyes as he starts to get close. “I’m gonna fucking cum,” you moan, tits bouncing in your bra. Manson pushes in one more time, and you cum hard on his cock, mouth falling open.

He pulls out of you when you’re finished, and Brian comes over, kneeling down and taking Mr. Manson’s cock into his mouth. He suckles for a few seconds, then takes him down all the way as the older man shudders, buries his fingers into your boyfriend’s hair, and cums down his throat. Brian swallows, blinking up at the teacher, and Mr. Manson looks down at him, at the teenager’s painfully swollen cock resting on his thigh. 

“You’ve been a good boy,” he mumbles, “Helped daddy cum. I think you deserve something.” Brian’s eyes flutter shut, and Manson strokes his cheek. With a gasp from the touch alone, Brian suddenly cums untouched all over his leg and the floor. You watch him convulse through every wave of his orgasm, then rest back on his hands when he finishes. 

Manson sits on the edge of his desk, and you stand, helping Brian clean up. He runs a hand through his long black hair, and fiddles his tongue against his lip ring.

“You know… you should come check out the Spooky Kids in concert sometime.”

Manson runs a hand through his hair, making sure he looks his best– comfortably disheveled. “Your band?" 

"Yeah. You were in a band yourself, weren’t you?” Brian smirks. 

“Yeah.”

“As long as you bring some good, uh… you know, nose candy– gotta make the sacrificial offerings to the band– then feel free to show up.”

“He doesn’t do _nose_ _candy_, bring some ring pops and lollipops and that’ll be more than sufficient,” you say, rolling your eyes. 

“What makes you think I’ve got drugs on me anyway?“ Manson deadpans. "I’m a fuckin’ high school English teacher.” Brian stares at the debauched man with lipstick smeared down his chin and hair standing up from all angles. Manson bursts into what can only be described as giggles. “Yeah. Well, I’m not about to give my drugs away to a group of 18 year old musicians. Then you’d turn out just like me.” 

“That wouldn’t be so bad,” Brian teases, tugging slightly at the silver skull brooch on Manson’s lapel. Manson strokes his knuckles.

“If I’m still in town, I’ll see if I can make it to a show. You seem like you’d be good. Like you’ve got rock star in your blood.” It’s as if Brian’s whole body blushes—it’s freaking cute you think, as you fix your hair. “–But only if I get to come backstage with the rest of the groupies." 

"Oh,” you smile, approaching to fix Mr. Manson’s black tie, “We’ll be waiting for you.” 

“Who else is in this band?” Manson asks out of curiosity. “Anyone else from this class?”

“Stephen, Scott, Jeordie. Another kid named Freddy, doesn’t go here.”

“Bier is crazy enough to be in a band, I’d believe that. Putesky, that’s interesting. He doesn’t seem the type. He seems like he’d be the type to yell at people like you to turn the music down.”

Brian nods, “Yeah, we tell him that all the time. He looks like someone’s grandpa. He shreds on the guitar, though, you’d be surprised. So does Jeordie.”

Manson huffs, getting his bag together, “Jeordie? That doesn’t surprise me as much.” The substitute teacher lets you two out of the classroom, and checks the time. 4 PM now. “Well. I hope you feel ready for the exam. I didn’t do shit to help you, but…” 

“We got what we needed to,” you say, fixing your skirt with a small smile.

“Good. Cause I think you’ve got a pretty good idea of what’ll happen if you get a fuckin’ F.” 


	27. NSFW Alphabet: Pope x Reader

** **

**A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)**

Not too touchy-feely. If you try to cuddle immediately afterward, he’ll probably get up and take a shower. Give it some time, he’ll warm up to you. 

**B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)**

Pope’s favourite body part of his own are his forearms. He loves showing them off, especially when he’s got his hands dirty with something (he knows it turns you on.) 

His favorite body part of yours is your lips/mouth. As you will soon discover, Pope loves your lips anywhere on his body, loves touching them affectionately with his thumb. He will stare, transfixed, at your lips while you talk until you tell him it’s creepy. 

**C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)**

Pope is dirty. He loves seeing you covered in his cum, if you’re into that sort of thing. He will literally start to get hard again if he sees you enjoying his cum in some way, playing with it or licking it up. 

**D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)**

He got rimmed once and loved it. This lead him to experimenting with getting pegged/being a bottom, but was turned off by it, so being on the receiving end of rimming became his one ONE (1) non-dominant sexual preference and guilty pleasure. 

He also loves getting his hair tugged. He doesn’t like revealing that to anybody he doesn’t implicitly trust, since unlike the sexual exclusivity of someone’s tongue up his ass, he sees hair-tugging as vulnerability (interesting logic Pope). If he tells you about the hair thing, that’s a sign he’s truly yours. 

**E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)**

Experience is average as any typical sexually active man, but knows his stuff for when he needs to. Sex/romance isn’t a big deal in Pope’s life, and with his line of work, he doesn’t get the chance to sleep with a lot of people. What usually ends up happening is, when he does feel the need, he’ll go out to a local bar and pick up someone for the night. He never has any trouble finding a willing partner. 

**F = Favorite position (this goes without saying) **

Doggy style. He loves the primal feel of it, and likes the anonymity of it with one night stands. If it’s a partner that he knows, he still loves it, but you’ll notice he starts to get a little more into it if you glance back at him and catch his eye. 

**G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)**

Pope takes sex very seriously. If he’s really in love with you, he may show a flicker of something other than Fuck Mode. He’s not gonna laugh or anything, but you may get a smile. Maybe. If you do something cute. 

He’s got a funny side out of the bedroom though, and you see it all the time inside the house! But no one can know. Did that neighbor just see him giggle at your joke? He’d better wipe blood all over his face like an animal to show everyone he’s not to be trifled with. 

**H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)**

He manscapes sometimes. When he thinks of it. Which is rarely ever. I rescind sometimes. You joke about having to use a machete to get to his dick, if Pope’s been on his own for a while. He’s bitter about it, and asks you if you want him to use anti frizz conditioner down there too. You show him the hairy donut meme in response. 

**I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)**

This also greatly varies if you’re a long term partner or just for the night. If he doesn’t know you, he’s completely emotionally closed off– the sex is amazing and physically more than fulfilling, but emotionally, you won’t get a glimmer of any kind of passion. If you’re his partner and he knows you, you’ll feel the passion behind it more during the actual act itself. 

He also loves it when you slip your hand into his unannounced. He’s a slut for feeling needed and being your protector. If he loves you, he’d take on the world for you. 

**J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)**

Legend has it (shhhh, you didn’t hear it from me…) that sometimes jacking off brings him down, cause during the moment when he finishes, the silence of being alone reminds him of the silence after he takes someone’s life. But once the afterglow is gone and the loneliness in the room disappears, he’s back to being an emotionally stunted cardboard box. To avoid this whole less than pleasant experience, he just goes to the bar when he wants some. He knows he’ll have no trouble getting pussy or dick. 

With a partner, he loves jacking off over top of you or mutual masturbation. Normally if he’s feeling horny but doesn’t want the whole sex shebang, he just asks you for a blow job, so jacking off isn’t necessary unless he’s been alone for a while. It’s also incredibly easy to tell when Pope is horny (he gets tense and growlier than usual) so you’re usually on it before he can even come to you, which he praises you for. 

**K = Kink (one or more of their kinks) **

Dirty talk, stranger sex (real or roleplayed), degradation (giving), pet play (calling you kitten or puppy, and you calling him master), praise (giving and receiving). 

**L = Location (favorite places to do the do)**

Somewhere dangerous, but private. Like… your cabin’s backyard, during a thunderstorm. A little rain can’t ruin a good picnic when Pope’s absolutely annihilating you from behind! :) 

There was this *one* time when he fucked you against his car though, parked off the side of an old country road. You had been rubbing him through his pants for nearly a half hour while he drove, but wouldn’t touch him properly. He has to admit, that sticks out in his mind as a good location. He even [waved](https://www.flickr.com/photos/187379364@N02/49646036988/in/dateposted-public/) at that one truck driver who honked as he drove by. _This as a fic, in my future masterlist? It’s more likely than you think. _

**M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going) **

Teasing. Pope’s not always outright about wanting you, so you have to coax it out of him if you want him to make the first move. Think: traipsing around the house in your underclothes, or for faster results naked, until he’s too hard to ignore you any longer. 

**N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)**

Pope is particularly rough because he knows he’s in control, but there is an extremely fine line. He won’t do anything involving excessive violence. He loves consensual slapping, choking and spanking, but things like hitting, bruising, getting _too _physical reminds him too much of a hit that challenged his surprisingly strong sense of morality years ago. He had been hired by someone shitty– the ex-boyfriend of his target, but that’s all you know. He doesn’t like to talk about it, and to this day, you don’t know if he actually carried out the hit or not. 

**O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.) **

He’ll give if you ask, but he’s a huge sucker for getting oral. He fucking loves watching you between his legs, your pretty lips around his cock. He loves it when you swallow, but he won’t make you feel bad if you don’t. 

Also… the rimming. Nuff said. 

**P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)**

Fast and rough! It makes him go crazy if you tell him you want him to wreck the shit out of you. If you like it slow, he’ll try to reign himself in, but fair warning, his natural setting is rough.

**Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)**

The only time Pope takes you for a quickie is if you reeeeally provoke him and act like a brat when he says he’s busy (ex. The Car Situation). He’ll grab you and fuck you so fast you’ll be crying his name, teaching you a lesson for being such a cocktease. 

Otherwise, he’d rather just use your mouth when he wants to cum fast, at least until later, when he can properly show you what a bad little kitten you’ve been. 

**R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)**

Aside from the aforementioned no-no, he loves taking risks. He’s the perfect person to take risks with, since his work demands nothing short of dead accuracy. He will try anything you ask and anything you’re both comfortable with, but will make _triply _certain you’re 100% safe, no margin for real danger. 

**S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)**

He can get it up as much as a man his age normally can in one night. During sex, he can last as long as you need him each round, and is very much in control of his body. He keeps his orgasm at bay like a master, and he never cums until his partner does. True skill.

**T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)**

He keeps a single remote control vibrator he uses on you when you’re really being trouble. Beyond that, he’s not about to have a bunch of dildos lying around his house when he has a perfect, working dick. (His words, not mine.) Oh, he does own handcuffs though. He loves using those on you. 

**U = Unfair (how much they like to tease) **

Teasing is his weakness, but he can dole it out too. Sometimes he’ll edge you for hours, reducing you to begging just so he can see how much you want him. 

**V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.) **

Pope’s pretty quiet on the moan scale. He’ll grunt a bit, and he has a particularly beautiful gasp when he finishes, but in general, he likes to hear you. He loves dirty talk though, and will whisper in your ear the filthiest things you’ve ever heard. 

**W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)**

Pope’s entire family except him was killed by a hitman, and he spent his whole childhood in fear that they would return for him. He became a hitman himself to become the monster he was afraid of. 

The one difference is, he never tortures his hits or makes them fear him. He talks to them, because he knows that even though he’s a harbinger of death and death is certainly inevitable if he’s there talking to them, he has no business making their last few minutes hell. 

_ <strike>This is a different story though if the hit has messed with his partner, as [this fic](https://headoverhiddles.tumblr.com/post/186738616273/the-lords-work-pope-x-reader-let-me-make-you-a) will attest to. </strike> _

**X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)**

He’s big and he knows it. Yeah, he’s got an ice pack ready when you’re done. 

**Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?) **

Average. His drive really adjusts to whoever he’s with. 

**Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)**

Pope doesn’t sleep well. He’s a chronic insomniac. He only sleeps maybe 3, 4 hours a night, since his brain runs wild when he has nothing to do physically. After sex though, he’s comforted knowing someone he loves is in bed with him, and even though he won’t have a restful sleep (he never does), things won’t be as dark for him when he feels your warm presence through the long nights. 


	28. NSFW Alphabet: Tully x Reader

**A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)**

Cuddle monster. He will wrap his arms all the way around you and you will be swallowed into the cuddle vortex. 

**B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s)**

Tully loves your legs. He thinks they’re so sexy, whatever position they’re in; sitting on his motorcycle, over his shoulder, and the way they strut when you walk away from him. 

His own favorite body part is his dick. Yeah, I said it. 

**C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)**

He likes seeing it on you from time to time, basically as a reminder that you belong to him, but he prefers to cum inside of you so that he smugly knows you’ve got him inside you for hours after. 

**D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)**

He once got off to the fantasy of you being consensually gangbanged by his closest biker gang members while he watched. He has yet to propose the idea to you. Would you accept? 

**E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what they’re doing?)**

Even though he’s loyal to you now, he’s had many sexual partners in the past to practice. He knows what he’s doing, and he doesn’t do well with constructive criticism cause it hurts his ego, so be gentle if he’s not doing something right. 

**F = Favorite position (this goes without saying) **

He loves taking you with your legs over his shoulders and holding your ass from beneath. He gets a good view of your face, and he also gets to rub up and down your legs. So against kitchen counters, walls, ends of beds, etc., all of that will work for this position. 

**G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)**

It depends on what mood he’s in. If he’s really in the mood and wants you bad, he’ll commit to fucking you properly and seriously. If it’s just casual, he’s a little more relaxed.

**H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)**

Surprisingly, he takes pride down there. He maintains it, not completely ridding himself of hair, but keeps it clean and to a minimum. He likes the feel of it better this way when he jacks off, and grooming is also a good way he’s found in jail to maintain his humanity. 

**I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)**

He’s not a _fluffy _person obviously, but with you, it’s the highest level of intimacy. You two are ride or die, and will go to the grave with each other’s secrets. 

He’s also very affectionate toward you, in private and in public cause he doesn’t give a fuck who sees (he likes it in fact, when people see your PDA. He likes to refer to you sometimes as the beauty who tamed the beast.) 

**J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)**

Tully’s sex drive is very high, so if you’re tired/in a funk/not in the mood, he’ll jack off, sometimes even a morning and night routine he’s used to from jail.

**K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)**

He loves it when his partner calls him daddy. He’s into DDLG/DDLB not just in the bedroom, but as a lifestyle too. Not overly so, but he’ll take on that role, taking care of you in that way, protecting you that way. 

**L = Location (favorite places to do the do) **

He’ll fuck you anywhere. One spot that does stick out to him as great though is the shower. Nice hot water and nice hot sex? He sees this as an absolute win. 

**M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)**

Seeing you wearing something of his or seeing you on his bike. Bonus if it’s both. 

**N = No (something they wouldn’t do, turn offs)**

He’s not that into roleplay. That’s about it. 

**O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)**

Like anyone, he loves a good blow job and loves the power that he has over you when you get on your knees and suck his cock, but his preference and one of his favorite things to do during sex is eat you out. It feels AMAZING and he is wonderful at it, and the best part? His stubble always scratches your thighs. 

**P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)**

Slow and rough? Is that a thing? It is now. He takes his time, drawing things out and making sure he’s good and thorough in satisfying you. Aka deep, passionate thrusts, very intense orgasms. 

**Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)**

Sure. As mentioned, he’s got a high sex drive, so he’d love a quickie in the morning since he’ll probably want to fuck you again that night. 

**R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)**

He’s not adverse to trying new things, but he has his favorite things and he’s pretty set in that. If you want something though, you’ll probably give him the eyes, and he can’t say no to you when you give him the eyes. 

**S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)**

A lot more than he should be able to. You swear the stuff he’s labelled “coke” is secretly Viagra. 

**T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)**

You both keep a toy chest by the bed at home, filled with all sorts of toys you both agreed on for you. He loves to start himself off watching you masturbate with a toy, the bigger the better, and especially encourages you to use them when he’s away for long periods of time. He wants to know his baby is satisfied. 

He doesn’t really get much out of any of the toys being used on him, (except he’s not opposed to nipple clamps being used on him, they intensify what he already feels with nipple piercings!) 

**U = Unfair (how much they like to tease) **

He’ll tease a little, but ultimately he’s weak when you ask him nicely, in that polite little voice of yours, to go harder or make you cum. He can’t maintain teasing for long. 

**V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)**

He’s loud as fuck, a) because he loves pissing people off around him that are forced to listen to it, and b) because he gets really into sex. He’ll grunt loudly each thrust, praise you, moan and groan with every throb of his cock. He’s even louder than you sometimes, but you’re both a deafening force to be reckoned with. 

**W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)**

Much like Manson, Tully had his heart broken a few times, but his weakness is his partner. He didn’t become closed off or anything, but that’s why he’s so dedicated to you– when he falls, he falls hard. 

This being said, it’s probably not a good idea to fuck with Tully if you’re not willing to give him your everything. He wants to know you’re willing to die for him, cause he’s willing to kill for you. 

**X = X-ray (let’s see what’s going on under those clothes)**

He’s average size to large-ish, but his confidence and attitude make up for the inches. Also, he’s got a tummy which he isn’t that happy about, but you love it more than the world and would probably cry if he tried to get rid of it. 

**Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?) **

High. He’s always unapologetically horny. 

**Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)**

If you’re in his arms, he’ll feel himself drift, but he always likes to keep himself awake long enough to watch you fall asleep. It’s a protective thing for one, and one of the simple pleasures he enjoys when he’s not away from you. 


	29. Wrapped In Plastic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The new kid at school intrigues you. He’s infatuated too, but beneath that scary exterior, you’ve got no idea what’s in store.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Era: Spooky Kids.

There he is, sitting in front of the principal again. Brian Warner. You’re surprised he hasn’t been expelled yet, frankly, even though he just moved here to South Florida recently.

You watch from afar, sitting with your friends. He’s making that face. That expression… or lack of expression. He doesn’t give a fuck what he got in trouble for, and you, he and the principal know it.

“Hey. (y/n),” your best friend says, “What the hell? Are you listening?”

“Yeah,” you mutter, glancing back into the office. God, he would probably fuck like an animal, taking you in some old haunted forest somewhere while spanking you and telling you you’re his dirty little slut…

Your friend scoffs when she sees where you’re looking.

“That guy is dangerous, quit fantasizing. That isn’t your picture perfect bad boy– that’s like dating the next Son of Sam killer.”

Your other friend chimes in. “My sister told me she saw him and his pack of weirdos out lighting an abandoned house on fire. My sister’s friend said she hears him jerking off in the washroom every lunch hour. The whole school knows about it. Also apparently in creative writing, he turned in this story about this guy fucking his sister’s corpse or something. Seriously weird, probably evil. He’s gonna end up in jail, mark my words.” You ignore your friend, but turn back into the conversation.

Eventually, the principal gives up, dismissing him. You see Brian join his friends outside the office door, who have been waiting– Jeordie and Stephen, you think you’ve heard them called in class. The one with the brown comb-over is called Pogo outside of class, because of his fascination with serial killers. You think it’s funny. Those guys just do whatever they want. 

Your breath hitches. Brian tucks his long black hair behind his ear, looking up and grinning at his friends. He’s describing what he did, and he looks like a gleeful child who just got away with murder as the other two bust out laughing and dig for details. How could anyone think he’s evil? 

Cold chills run through your body as he meets your eyes._ Oh, fuck. _He smirks a little bit your way, but you quickly look away. His features harden, and he turns back to his friends. You turn back to yours.

You can’t help watching after him as he walks down the hall to fourth period, though… his head nearly reaches the ceiling, and that metal Planet Of The Apes lunchbox makes you smile. You’ve heard him make a threat or two to beat someone’s ass with it, and you believe he’d do it. For every bully who promised him he’d be nothing, there’s something about him that promised so much more.

–

The bell goes, and Brian sits down at the desk. 

“She was looking at you." 

"Yeah, she was talking to her friends about me,” Brian mutters back.

“She looked like she was wetting her panties over you,” Jeordie grins, “She looks like she wanted to suck your dick right there in front of Mr. Ogilvie!”

“That’d be the day,” Brian sighs. 

“Yeah, you’d have beat off material forever,” Pogo laughs.

“But she wasn’t,” he said, “You guys are just fucking blind.”

“I don’t know, I got some blow job vibes from her,” Pogo says. 

“You get blow job vibes from everyone.” 

“I’ll blow you for lunch money,” Jeordie mentions. Pogo shrugs. 

“I might take you up on that.” His obnoxious laughter rings out as you walk by the door. You recognize it immediately, and look back. Brian’s sitting there, knees tucked under the desk like his legs won’t fit. _Shit_. In your experience, being this preoccupied with someone meant you were into them… or at least, wanted to see more of them. 

Brian looks up again, and sees you staring at him. This time, he frowns. You’re drawn away by your friend, who pulls you toward your next class. As you’re walking, someone calls your name.

“Hey! (y/n), right?” 

You turn as your friend keeps walking ahead. You scoff slightly as he approaches. “Like you don’t know my name.” You pause, backtrack. “I- sorry. That was mean.”

“That’s okay. I’ve been known to be a little mean too,” he smirks, and he flips his hair out if his face. “I guess when you hang around a bunch of catty bitches all the time, it rubs off on you.” His voice is so deep and calm. It throws you off whenever he speaks, but does other things to you as well.

“Hanging out with a pair of delinquents can do the same.” Your eyes dart inside the classroom to his friends, who are carving something into a desk. He gives a small smile.

“Touché.”

“Speaking of rubbing off,” you raise an eyebrow, “Did you want to talk to me?”

He blushes, then forces his embarrassment away. “That rumor’s not true.”

“No?”

“Nah. I did light that abandoned house on fire though.” He grins, and you do as well, hugging your books closer to your chest. 

“So. You’re a rebel, huh?”

“If not putting up with everybody’s bullshit counts as rebelling, then yeah. I guess so.”

“I can respect that,” you nod. “I feel the same way… but I’m not as fearless as you.”

“Are you saying you _might_ commit arson with me, (y/n)?” 

“Maybe. How did the conversation progress to lighting things on fire with you?” 

He laughs, ducks his head nervously. “Well. Um, I saw you staring like a creep, and… I was wondering if you wanted to be creeps together. Y’know… hang out sometime? Come see my band, or…?”

“Are you asking me out?”

“Yeah, I am.”

You smile, poking his black shirt that read _Christianity is Unnatural, Abnormal, and Perverse._ “You’ve got balls, Brian.” You look at the clock, and back to his class. “What do you say we fuck off for the rest of the day?”

His eyebrows shoot up. “You wanna skip class today?”

“Sorry,” you walk your fingers up his chest. “I know I’m not quite at your level of rebellion yet, but it’s a start.” 

He laughs as he follows you to your locker. 

—

“So. Do you have a car?”

“No.” He scratches his head. “We can walk back to my house, though. My parents aren’t home.” 

Following that plan, you make it back to his house. For someone hailed as the Antichrist of the school, he’s got a relatively normal looking home, white picket fence and everything. All that changes once you get to his room.

“Wow,” you say, looking up at everything. He’s got serial killer-like writing scrawled on the wall by his bed, lyrics that seem like they’re straight out of a porno or a horror film, or both. There are pentagrams drawn on his bed posts, and posters of bands like Nine Inch Nails, Ozzy Osbourne, KISS on his walls.

“I know it’s stupid, but I’d give anything to meet those guys,” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck.

“It’s not stupid,” you say, examining the edges of the posters, freyed from the move no doubt. “I actually think it’s awesome. I love Ozzy.”

“One day I’m gonna beat his record for most drugs consumed over a lifetime.”

“Have you started practicing?” you tease.

“I… well, I haven’t had the chance.”

“Right. Let me know when you do.” You smile, going over to sit on his bed. He looks down at you, seems to have a mini panic attack, then acts cool with it, playing with his lip ring and sitting beside you. You look around the messy floor. He’s got a strange mix of stuff that oddly seems to perfectly fit his personality: leaking boxes of black hair dye, various lipsticks and nail polishes, a bag of weed, books on the rise of fascism and Carl Jung’s red book, an antique-looking switchblade, a Willy Wonka hat, condoms with little angry faces drawn on them, an old deflated football with “FIGHT” written on it, and… “What’s that?” you ask, leaning down. Brian coughs.

“Oh. Yearbook from last year.”

You pick it up, looking at all the little drawings of candy, needles, Charles Manson and other doodles he’s defaced the book with. “But you didn’t go to this school last year.”

“I traded my mom’s diet pills for it.”

“Huh. Hustling already. Must have been some good stuff.” You hesitate. The page was open to the photos of you as the lead in the play last year. You smirk, pretending to squint. “Is that a cum stain I see on my face?”

“You wish,” he huffs, but he’s blushing, hair curtaining around his face. You give him a look, turning fully toward him.

“Why’d you really invite me over?”

“To tell you I hate you, knock you out, and bury you in my backyard.” You laugh.

“I mean, if you think about it…”

“It’s the perfect plan. Invite the girl you’ve got a crush on over, assume she’s gonna make fun of you, lure her in, then get your revenge.” You smile, laying back on his bed.

“You just admitted to having a crush on me.”

“Wasn’t it obvious?” he asks. “I only ever threaten to kill the people I really wanna fuck.”

“And do you really wanna fuck me, Bri?” you ask coyly, crawling dangerously close to him. He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing in his long, graceful throat. “You wanna fuck me right here, right now, while your parents aren’t home, make me scream your name while you blare your favorite metal record and act like things’ll never change?”

“That sounds good,” he groans. His hands wander up your thigh, and you smile, bouncing on his leg. “…I also wanna share my music with you. Read a book over your shoulder. Maybe pop a few pills, key someone’s car, grab a milkshake and look at the stars on Special K so we feel like we’re floating, you know. Before I bang the shit out of you. Date stuff.”

“Is this not our first date?” you ask. His tongue flicks up over his lip ring again. 

“I guess you could say it is.”

“Good. Cause I never fuck on a first date,” you say, “Or so I tell people.” He clenches his jaw, and braces a skinny arm beside your head, leaning down to capture your lips. His lips taste sweet, like mint and those sugary rocket candies. He takes his shirt off, and you rub your hands down, feeling a few scars. He lets out a whimpered noise at your touch, shuddering a little. 

You make out and grind against one another for a few minutes, your hands pulling his hips closer by his black belt loops and his fingers tangling your hair. Your breath gets faster as he grinds harder, more desperately, and you reach a hand down to help him out, give him something to rut against.

“You feel so big,” you moan, and he runs a hand through his hair, lips falling open.

“I’m gonna…” He makes another desperate noise, and you feel it right where you need him. But since all his condoms in here seem to be used or have faces drawn on them in scented marker, you opt for over the clothes stuff only.

“Use your fingers?” you breathe. He looks like he’s about to cum, and you know it’ll tip you over as well, what with all the times you had thought of him like this.

He reaches into your jeans, unzipping them, and messily finds your clit. For a teenage guy, he’s not bad. He starts to rub, then reaches three fingers down to thrust them into you.

“Fuck, Bri! Three?!” you breathe. He looks into your eyes, not stopping.

“I thought girls were whores for that kind of thing!”

“It’s…” you moan, “That’s… oh… y-yeah… Jesus…” He really start to work them in, watching your reactions while rutting his clothed erection against your leg. "Fuck, Brian, grab my tits… yeah… this is just how I imagined it when I…”

He freezes for a second, and his whole body convulses. He gasps, and you see him reach down to cover his crotch, face going beet red. He doesn’t stop, though. He keeps fingering you, and now that he’s not worried about grinding, he can explore you in other ways. He attaches his lips to your neck, and sucks a hickie right below your ear. 

“Brian… Bri, make me c–” 

“Cum for me, you filthy little slut,” he snarls, and you arch your back up, grinding down into his fingers as your orgasm hits. You rock through it, and he kisses you again, sloppy and hot. When he pulls away, he gives you your fingers to lick clean, which you do through a heated stare.

Things calm down into you laying back against his pillows with his stringy body tucked in a cramped position beside you. “I didn’t know you were that…” you search for words. “Experienced?" 

"What, you thought I was a virgin?” 

You giggle. “I didn’t know what to think about you, to be honest. Kinky, inexperienced, I had no idea. Of course, I hoped that you were kinky.”

“I’ve been known to use restraints when asked,” he smirks.

“I’ve got that to look forward to. I thought you were cute too, though. I don’t care if you’re some devil worshipper who parents and teachers everywhere shiver at the thought of.” He’s quiet for a second.

“I thought you were scared of me." 

"That too, a little bit. But what scares me turns me on.” He rolls over to face you, a vulnerable position for him, you can tell. 

“The way I dress is what I perceive to be beautiful. Looking like this, doing what I want to, it keeps the assholes who like to give my face their own version of plastic surgery away if they think I’m a Satanist who’s gonna… cut off their mom’s head or something if they fuck with me. Makes the hypocrites who call themselves teachers question their morals too, ‘teaching’ someone like me to be a good little boy and follow society’s rules. It’s all brainwashing, everything they feed us with their sugar and shit, and I’m the bad guy for standing up to it." 

You stroke hair out of his face, and he looks up at you, lips pursed. "There’s always gotta be a scapegoat. I guess you fit that role.” You look beyond him. “You think it would ruin your image if those bullies found your poetry books?” He smiles. 

“Nah. One day, I’m gonna grow up to be a big rock and roll star. I’ll use my own poetry and turn it into music, and I’ll look ten times more extreme than I do now. Then they can all say they knew me, and I’ll tell them to go to hell.” 

You snuggle into him. "Mmm. Speaking of extreme… we should pull a Sandy and Danny. I’ll come to school dressed all goth and shit Monday. Throw my friends for a loop.”

“Does that mean I have to dress like a cheerleader?” he asks.

“You’ve got the ass for it.”

He grins. “Stop it, you’re making it very hard for me not to wanna fuck you for real right now.”

“Here’s the deal,” you say, “I’ll show you where I live this weekend. You tell me what your favorite fruit is, because that’s a soul searching question. At that point we’ll know each other better… and I’ll be fair game.”

He bites his lip. “I feel like I’ve known you forever.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

Just then, there’s a knock at the bedroom door. Startled, you sit up quickly, and who you can only assume to be Brian’s mom pops her head in. “When the fuck did you two get home?!” Brian blurts.

“About five minutes ago, honey. Don’t worry, we didn’t hear anything. Jeordie called, said he ‘left the smoke bomb under the urinals.’ I hope you aren’t getting up to trouble like the last school, your father had a heck of a time getting you into this one.”

“Mom.”

“He had to switch jobs too, and with his back, you know how difficult long drives can be. Oh, how rude of me– hello sweetie, you can call me Barb.”

“Mom–" 

"Brian, is this the sweet thing you had that dream about the other night?”

“MOM!”

“Hugh, Brian’s got a girlfriend over, we should turn the TV up to give them a little privacy.” 

“GIRLFRIEND?!” a voice calls up, “GOOD ON YA, SON. THAT’S MY BOY!” 

“Jesus fucking Christ…” Brian groans, burying his face in a pillow. You laugh so hard into his chest you nearly tumble off his bed. Most dangerous guy in school, your ass.


	30. Bonnie and Clyde (David Dolores Frank x Reader)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You run into a not-so-armed and dangerous fugitive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short film: Wrong Cops

Your first thought when you see the cop car ahead of you is to run. Get the hell out of there, before the driver of the car comes back and recognizes you.

It'd be pretty hard to recognize you dressed like this, though. Beanie, black hoodie, no identifiable features visible. You relax a little, and walk normally by toward your motorbike. Looking like a law abiding citizen is less suspicious anyway.

Hearing the sound of shuffling footsteps quickly approaching from behind, you turn. It's a man in a baseball cap, a jacket and jeans, hurrying down the sidewalk with his hands taped together. He gives you an awkward smile as he tries to waddle by.

"Hey! You okay?" you ask.

"I'm sorry, I can't talk right now or I'm going to be murdered," he says. You look behind him in confusion, and see a cop, most likely the owner of the squad car you just walked by, aiming a gun this way.

"Oh," you nod, "I see your point." You grab and tackle him as a gunshot goes off, and you hear the cop swear about something. You figure you have enough to get this guy out of here, so you take him to your motorcycle, urging him on the back as you get your swiss army knife out to cut him free.

"Um, miss? I'm not wearing any protection on my head, and I feel uncomfortable--"

"Just get on the damn bike, hurry!"

He does so, holding on as best he can, and you take off.

"Damn Hell's Angels!" the cop shouts after you, waving his gun. "That's some Sons of Anarchy shit right there!"

As the residential neighborhood starts to fade away behind you two, you kill the speed a little, and sigh in relief for having survived that. You realize his hands have settled around your waist, and he's holding onto you for dear life.

"Hey. Um..." he says loudly, over the roar of the engine. "Thank you. For... saving me? And not letting me... be killed... yeah."

You stop the bike in a relatively deserted part of the city, and help him off.

"Not a problem. I'm always up to look out for a fellow outlaw." You grin. He blinks at you.

"Oh, I'm not a criminal. I was kidnapped, and... I don't really know what happened, but it involved loud music and a scary dude in underwear. That cop guy." He swallows. "You're much prettier to look at than he was... though..."

You raise your eyebrows, and smile a little. This guy is cute.

"What's your name?"

He sticks his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "My name is David Dolores Frank."

"I'm (y/n). Come with me if you want to live." He stares at you in mortal fear, and you wave your hand. "It's a joke. Terminator? Come on." You lead him down an alley. "We'd better lay low for a bit, just in case the creep decides to follow us."

He takes your hand as you walk, and your smile grows. "Question," he says.

"Yeah?"

"Why are you, um, dressed like a hoodlum?" He points to your hoodie, grimacing. "Because you look like a hoodlum."

You slide down the wall, sitting down. "Unlike you apparently, I'm a wanted criminal." He freezes again, his fight or flight obviously engaged, and you roll your eyes. "I saved your life, I'm not about to hurt you." He nods, and cautiously sits down beside you.

"What did you do?"

"Stole the Mona Lisa."

He puts his head in his hands. "Oh my god. Oh my god, that's like... the biggest crime ever. Why did you steal _that_?"

"I have my reasons," you shrug. He stares at you for a while, before finally deciding you're okay. You catch him staring, and tilt your head back at him. "You're looking at me like I'm about to grow three heads."

"Well, you did just tell me you stole the Mona Lisa... we’re like Bonnie and Clyde, running away from the cops together." You snort. 

“Except for the fact that you’re not actually wanted.” 

“He wants me.” David scrunches his face up. “That sounds wrong.” 

“Just... relax. Try not to freak out, okay?” He sighs.

"I'm sorry. You're just really beautiful, I can't stop looking... um... I'm bad at this."

A blush spreads over your cheeks. You haven't blushed in years. "You're sweet, David Dolores Frank." He rests his head gently on your shoulder, and looks around.

"This alley place is creepy. It's kind of exciting."

"Yeah. This is where I hide when shit goes down. Cops never really think to find me in an alley."

"I don't know. This guy-- my aggressor-- was weird. He was so weird. A dirty cop or something. He was very dirty, called me a street hooker."

"Are you a street hooker?" you ask.

"No!" he protests, "I'm not a street hooker. I'm just..." You smile, nudging him.

"It's cool. I get it."

"The dirty cop man had, like... drugs and stuff, or what I think are drugs because I don't know what drugs look like... in his house. And he lived there with his mom... it was weird." You laugh, shaking your head.

"This story just keeps devolving into more and more of a nightmare."

"I'd still be living it if you hadn't have come along," he says, "He would have shot my legs off or something." You hum.

"Forget it, David Delores Frank. I'm just glad I met you. You're nice, and the only person I've met who hasn't threatened to turn me into the police."

"I wouldn't do that," he mumbles. "Even though I don't know you. I just... like you?" He looks up at you, and then the sky. "Sky's getting dark."

"Yeah. You okay with that?"

"Yeah..." You give one last look down both ends of the alley. He speaks up again. "...I would prefer someplace more well lit, though. With brighter lights."

"My apartment's a couple blocks from here. Wanna crash there?" He nods, and the two of you head over there. Once upstairs, he looks around.

"Pretty cool place. You got somewhere for me to play my tunes?"

You shed your jacket on the couch, and smile. "Only if I get to dance with you." David ducks his head, and takes out his iPod.

"You're really going to love this, (y/n)." He scrolls through and grins as he presses play. "It doesn't sound at all like a man who's got his balls caught in a washing machine, trust me."


End file.
